As I Lift Up My Hands
by Keiran
Summary: In 1996 Jacob Lake sat in a hospital outside of Chicago, praying for his father to make it through the surgery. Mr Lake lived, though the price paid for his recovery may have been too high. AU take on Castiel's vessel.
1. Chapter 1

**As I Lift Up My Hands**

**Author:** Keiran

**Rating:** 14

**Word count:** 51,500 total

**Disclaimer:** All recognizable characters and/or ideas belong to their respective owners. This is for free entertainment only.

**Summary:** There are no happy endings in the world of the supernatural. It ends bloody or it ends sad, no matter how miraculous the beginning.

**Author notes:** Although this story is, for all intents and purposes, a Supernatural fanfic, as it takes place in the appropriate universe and features a few canon characters, for the most part it's the story of a guy about whom we only know that he was devout and handsome. Knowledge of the fandom is not required, in fact the less familiar with Supernatural you are, the better a read this will be, though the fic features several spoilers for the series.

I wrote this in November 2008, before the episode "Rapture" aired. Since I didn't much care for the episode and the show's take on "Jimmy" I choose to stick my fingers in my ears and deny ever hearing anything about "Jimmy" or "Amelia" or "Claire". XD Kidding, of course. This is an AU take on who Castiel's vessel might have been, and why he prayed to be possessed.

Betaed by Yami_Tai.

For the record I feel the need to state this is the longest single story I have ever written, so am feeling an immense sense of accomplishment. Go me!

* * *

**June 1996**

The beads of the rosary are warm against his fingers. Jacob doesn't pray, not anymore. He tried, more than once, if only to calm his nerves, but it turns out his nerves don't want the comfort of Hail Marys. After he recites the final Hail Mary of the fourth decade he finds himself staring blankly at the wall, twisting the chain around his hands. The wall is a sickly green. Whoever thought that green was a good color for a hospital wall deserves a long stay in such an establishment, as penance. Jacob closes his eyes and rests his forehead against his hands, by now tied thoroughly together by the rosary.

He wants to pray, but his mouth is dry and the words won't come out.

"Hey man."

Jacob looks up. "Hey Dennis."

"How are you holding up?"

"How do I look?"

"Like hell. Perhaps a little worse, depending on the season."

"Thanks," Jacob says, though he can't say he knows for sure what Dennis meant.

"Any time."

It is hard to believe it's only been half an hour. Thirty-seven minutes, to be precise, since they wheeled his father in for surgery. Jacob returns to staring at the wall, seeing nothing. He hopes the time will fly by, that it'd be several hours before someone comes out of the operating room with a message. They warned, him, his mother, his father. The surgery could take as much as half a day, or just the time necessary to open his father's abdominal cavity, determine the cancer had spread too far and declare it inoperable. Jacob solely hopes it would take forever. Days, if at all possible. Anything to avoid seeing the empty look in a doctors eyes when he says the words "I'm sorry, but there's nothing more we can do."

He has heard them before, once. He'd been ten, and it was his grandfather being sentenced to death. He remembers the look on his father's face. He wonders if he is wearing the same expression, just now.

"You know this could take all night. You should go home," Dennis said. Jacob looks down, at his hands. The beads are by now etched into the back of his hands. The rosary is wound up so tightly he can feel the hardness on the bones in his hands.

"I'll wait," he replies tightly.

"What about your mom?"

"She's with her sister. She'll be fine."

Dennis is silent for a longer while. "You know… Your father could be fine."

"That's what I'm hoping for, yeah," Jacob replies, a trace of humor in his voice.

"I mean, really. They might find it was just a scare, get the tiny lump that got them so confused, close him up and send you both home."

"Yeah. Here's hoping."

"And it won't cost you anything," Dennis continues. His voice is dreamy, and unfocused. Jacob has a feeling he is listening to someone not quite there. His mind supplies an image of the Greek prophetess in the Delphi temple, high on the fumes, and he almost, almost cracks up, but he is too somber to be amused.

"Have you been drinking?" he asks instead, glancing at the man.

"No." Then after a pause, "Don't you wish it were so?"

"Sure." The chain of the rosary is painful now, heat and pressure against his skin. "Yes. I do."

Dennis smiles, lazily. "There you go. You hold on to that."

Jacob smiles back. "Thanks."

"No problem. Just one small thing."

"What?"

"In about ten years I'll swing by your home, for an errand. Promise you'll help me out?"

"You have been drinking," Jacob accuses, but the whole conversation has been just short of amusing, so he goes along with it. "Hey, if that makes you happy. Yeah, I'll help."

"Great." Dennis picks up his hand and shakes it, solemnly. Jacob wrinkles his nose.

"Okay, that's not alcohol. What are you on?"

"Weeds. Don't tell anyone."

"Go home," Jacob says, his spirits lifted considerably. "Sleep it off. The cops are wandering by every now and then, carrying drunks, I'd hate for them to grab you on the way."

Dennis gets off the bench a little unsteadily. "Yeah, I'm going."

"I'll ring you, when we get back home." Drunk or not, there was something about Dennis Jacob can't help but grin about. A useful guy for getting your spirits up, that's for sure.

"Goodnight." Dennis walks past him and Jacob straightens in his chair.

"Shit!" The rosary breaks in his hands, beads spilling into the quiet corridor with thunderous noise. Jacob shoots out of his chair, hunting for the errant spheres. "Of all the times to break," he mutters to himself. Luckily, most of the chain held together, so he has no problem completing the rosary again. He has all but one when he looks up and sees the final piece, dangling off Dennis' fingers. For a moment they both stare at it in rapt fascination.

"Dennis, go home," Jacob says, grabbing the piece from his hand. "I'm okay here."

"Can you fix it?" Dennis asks, his voice hushed and fascinated.

Jacob blinks. He is still looking at the broken rosary. "Yeah, no problem." Dennis' grin is positively scary. "Dude, go home. Call a cab or whatever, 'cause you're seriously creeping my out."

"I am? Sorry. See you later."

Jacob watches Dennis go, a little unsteadily, down the longest corridor in hospital history, and disappear behind the door. He shakes his head and looks down at the rosary. It feels warm against his skin, warmer than before. But the only damage is a few broken links and that can be fixed easily enough.

He gets back in his chair, to stare at the opposing wall once again. The feeling of impending doom is well and truly gone by now. He doesn't realize when he falls asleep, though later he suspects that the sudden appearance of Dustin Hoffman in a toga at eight forty-nine was a suspicious clue. He wakes up to a very surprised doctor, shaking him by the arm.

"Mr Lake? Your father is out of surgery now."

Jacob looks at a clock and swallows painfully. It's been less than a couple of hours. "Can I see him?" he asks, feeling bleak and washed out.

"He hasn't woken up yet. The surgery went very well," he says, though his brows are furrowed as if he doesn't quite believe his own words. Or his own eyes. "The cancer was surprisingly insignificant, considering the test results. We got all of it. His prognosis is excellent."

Jacob sags weakly against the chair. "Thank God," he whispers reverently, pressing his mouth to the broken rosary. "Thank God."

"You may see him, if you wish. We can't let you in just yet, though."

"Thank you," Jacob follows the doctor to a room where a couple of nurses are checking needles and machines, all of them hooked up to the living breathing man in the middle. His father. His eyes are still closed and the amount of machines and tubes is frightening, but he looks okay. Jacob watches for a few moments, because it seems too unbelievable to be true, but he looks as if he were sleeping comfortably in his own bed.

In a few minutes he will call his mother, with the good news, to share the miracle. If he knows his aunt, by tomorrow the whole town will know and there would be quiet celebration and joy for everyone. This moment though, right then, the miracle is his and his alone.

**TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

**June 2006**

The bedroom turns dichromatic as lightning splits the sky. Jacob doesn't wake up, but the lightning still registers, manifesting in his dream as a white flame that sucks the red out of everything. He is puzzled by the sudden shift of colors, but as he is aware he is dreaming and he attributes the change to a burp of his unconscious mind. The dream, though bizarre, is relaxing, and Jacob is therefore puzzled when he wakes up. The bedside clock tells him it's just short of four a.m., which is more or less three and a half hours before his usual wake up call. He wakes all the same and finds Tim staring at him, his little hands tangled together so tight Jacob worries they won't come apart again.

"What's wrong?" he asks and sits up.

Tim shakes his head and Jacob puts his hand on the boy's forehead. His temperature doesn't seem to be up. "Rachel is crying," Tim whispers eventually. He says nothing more but his hands are tightly wound and the weariness on his little face is obvious. Jacob lifts the boy, cradling him against his chest, and gets up.

"Let's go calm her down, okay?" he whispers, careful not to wake Deborah.

Rachel's voice is loud in the corridor and Jacob wonders how he slept through it. Then again, with the storms raging throughout the county recently and the need to get a decent night's sleep, it was no wonder he didn't hear a baby's cry, when there are so many louder noises in the vicinity.

Rachel is hiccupping now, tears hanging to the corners of her eyes. "What's wrong?" Jacob asks, leaning over the crib. She looks up at him and miraculously calms down, gurgling her opinion on the life and her place in the universe. "Sneaky little devil," Jacob mutters. Tim is drooling on his shoulder, his breathing slower and deeper with each passing second.

Jacob wonders when the kids will stop being such attention hogs. He carries the boy to his bed, and tucks him in. "Goodnight," he says. "What's left of it," he adds under his breath. He hates waking up in the middle of night. Going to sleep afterwards is a nightmare. He goes back to bed anyway, and wraps his arms around Deborah. She mutters something indistinct, and elbows him in the stomach. Jacob drifts in and out of sleep until morning, comforted by Deborah's warm weight in his arms, even if he isn't truly resting. When the dozing gives way to wakefulness the first thing Jacob's mind comes up with is the need of caffeine.

"Coffee?" Deborah asks when he walks into the kitchen at eight thirty a.m. Jacob fumbles with his tie and shoots her a grateful look.

"Thanks." The coffee is hot and caffeinated. It should last him long enough to drive to work and get another one. Jacob downs it as fast as its temperature allows, kisses Deborah and the kids goodbye, and hurries out of the house.

The storm spared his car, though the trees along the alley and Mr Wilkins' car across the road haven't been so lucky. Jacob winces in sympathy. Mr Wilkins usually parked in the garage, which he neglected to do the previous night. Shame he didn't think to park it away from the tree, at the very least. It's a tragic oversight, considering that the storms have been getting more and more violent lately.

Jacob tries to recall whether Mr Wilkins had a policy with their company. With the size of the town it seems more than likely.

No matter. Jacob gets into his car and backs out of his driveway. The storms are making his life so much more difficult these days, with the amount of damage-related paperwork they seem to be blowing onto his desk through the window.

"Hello, Mr Lake," says the secretary, beaming at him from behind her desk. He smiles at her. She is young and bouncy and today her red curls are piled on top of her head and held in place by a green bandana. Jacob isn't up-to-date where fashion is concerned, but he has to admit it suits her.

"Hello, Nancy," he replies politely. "Any good news? Tree didn't fall on anyone, or anything, and I can spend the day slacking off?"

"Sorry." There is just too much contrition in the single world. Jacob feels a stab of dread. This means something unpleasant is in store for him. Nancy hands him a folder and he resists, with great effort, banging his head against the desk once he reads the brief summary.

A goddamned cow. Killed by a falling tree. Which went right through and out the other side. Jacob wonders if his face is as green as he feels. "Are you kidding?" he asks weakly.

"Afraid not. We already called the veterinarian, Dr Burns will meet you at the scene half past twelve."

"What? Where?" The time is apt for panic, apparently. "I have to go there?"

"Yes. Sorry, Mr Lake."

Standing in the office, filled with desks and people bent over papers, Jacob thinks he might be sick. Then he walks out into the field, following the veterinarian to inspect a thoroughly skewered cow, which was in no way a poetic metaphor for a kebab. The sight is bad – cows are by nature decently sized and the tree this unfortunate animal was standing under had pointy branches. When the lighting struck a good portion of the tree fell, pinioning the animal to a ground like a pin does a butterfly, without the aesthetics. The branches are massive, so their substantial weight and the tree's momentum carried them all the way to the ground, cow notwithstanding. Jacob looks away, but the dead animal captures his attention all the same. When his brain finally registers the sweet smell of decay and half-digested hay, he is sick all over the nearby fence.

"Sorry," he manages looking up. His knees feel week. He grabs onto the fence to keep his balance, as the farmer and the veterinarian look at him, the farmer with his eyebrows raised, the veterinarian with pity and some amusement.

"Better?" she asks, handing him a tissue.

"Not really. Okay, I've seen the cow. It's definitely dead. Can I just sign the paper and go?"

"Just a moment." The vet is laughing silently. Jacob can tell she is, even though she tries to hide it, probably to spare his manly pride. She snaps on a rubber glove and kneels next to the animal. Her next words aren't quite so inspiring. "Damn."

"What?"

"I think the cow was already dead when the tree fell on it."

Jacob turns halfway, so that the carcass is on the edge of his vision. It doesn't help much, as his brain extrapolates and the image is already burned into his retinas. "What?" he asks again.

"Definitely. For a short while, likely, but the circulation had stopped."

"Great. Now what?"

"I need to take it." Jacob thinks another "what" isn't necessary. "No obvious cause of death, not that I can see from here," she corrects herself, considering the ton of cow meat shish-kebabbed with a tree.

"Aside from the fact that it's impaled on a tree?"

"I said it was dead before the tree fell. When did this happen, Mr Jones?" the vet asks the farmer.

"Could have been any time last night." He shrugs and stuffs his hands down his pockets. "The pen had been broken; she must have wandered out on her own. I didn't notice she was gone until this morning."

"Stolen?"

"If I were to steal one of my cows," the farmer says thoughtfully, "I would have picked better. But yeah, could be."

Jacob takes one more look at the dead animal. Its eyes are still open, staring at him with an expression of hazy satisfaction. She must have been a well-adjusted cow. He bends over and loses the rest of his lunch. "I hate my job," he manages, thinking of hanging himself on the fence with his tie.

"You think yours is bad?" the veterinarian turns to him and flashes a smile. "I get to take this cow apart. And let me tell you, with an animal this huge, I'm gonna have to walk in, literally."

Jacob has the time to roll his eyes, thank her for the mental image and bend over again, before he heaves up the last of the food he's consumed today, and something that tasted like yesterday's dinner. "Just kill me now," he mutters wiping his chin with the vet's handkerchief. "I am never touching a hamburger again in my life."

"Vegetarianism, despite what they say, is healthy," the vet says, grinning. "Seeing as you are no longer a growing boy." She turns to Mr Jones. "I will need to get it to my place, I have equipment there. But I'll need a truck and some help loading it."

"Can I go now?" Jacob asks, hoping she reads his desperation from his voice.

"Hm? Yeah, no problem. Go. I'll email you my report when I'm done."

Jacob barely listens to the email part. He is halfway across the field already when his mobile rings. "Jacob Lake," he says without looking at the caller ID.

"Mr Lake, it's me. Again."

Jacob stops and looks back. The vet is waving at him. He waves back, uncertainly. "Yes?"

"Since there is also the possibility of the cow having been stolen, Mr Jones is calling the police. I don't know what you'll need."

"A copy of the police report, if you'd be so kind."

"No problem." Jacob sees her cover the mouthpiece with her hand and turn to Mr Jones. Muffled, but the sound still carries through, "Mr Lake will need a copy of the police report, along with mine."

He sees the farmer nod. Jacob nods back and disconnects. At the moment he hates his job, with a passion worthy of a better cause. Also, he is cold. He wraps his thin coat around himself tightly and starts walking to his car. The crispy air is dealing with his nausea, fortunately – there is a good chance he'll manage to drive back to the office with his car and head intact. He stops along the way once, at a gas station, to get a pack of chewing gum, ice mint. On second thought he also grabs a toothbrush.

There are no more pressing cases that day, luckily for the poor souls who might need the insurance money. He is in no shape to read any reports. He hopes the vet will be kind enough to abbreviate her findings and deliver them in a concise, non-disgusting way. That's what he hopes for. What he suspects he'll get is a hundred pages with pictures and videos. He knows Dr Leticia Burns, he's called for her expertise a couple of times already. She has an iron stomach and countenance to match, but her sense of humor is defective, in that she tends to forget other people don't share her disposition. Bottom line – he is going to be forced to stomach pictures of the dead cow, inside and out. Which was altogether more than he feels he can handle.

"I need a new career," he tells Nancy on his way in.

"Oh? Was it that bad?"

"Worse."

"Can I get you anything?"

"Strong, black tea, if you'd be so kind." He all but falls into his chair, remembering at the last minute about the toothbrush.

The tea is lukewarm when he emerges from the bathroom. Nancy is hovering by his desk, concern all over her face. "Are you okay, Mr Lake?"

"Yes, right now. Thank you." Lukewarm or not, strong tea is just what he needs at the moment. "At least until Dr Burns sends me her report, which I'm sure will be a delightful read."

"Undoubtedly," Nancy agrees, nodding. She can still remember his reaction to the previous case in which Dr Burns' expertise had been necessary. Nancy didn't know all the details, and in Jacob's opinion was all the happier for it. His experience contributed to weeks of restless sleep and a firm resolution never to let his children drive, when there was a chance of cattle being in the same county. Actually, never let them drive, period. "Still, that means you have a couple of days of relative peace, right?"

"I can only hope." Truth be told, the past few weeks have not been easy. The weather has taken a turn towards vicious, wreaking havoc on the city. Even if Dr Burns doesn't hurry, Jacob is willing to bet he'll have another potentially revolting case on his hands, sooner rather than later. "What time is it, anyway?" he asks picking up his wristwatch. "Huh. That late?"

"I was about to head home," Nancy admits. Jacob takes that to mean he looked horrible enough to warrant a baby-sitter.

"I'm okay, don't worry. Goodbye." Jacob nods in her direction and starts gathering his own things. "I'll see you on Monday."

"Goodnight, Mr Lake."

Jacob emerges from the office with his coat tucked tight around his neck. Before he makes it to the car he is carrying it in one hand, along with his briefcase. The weather is not on his side, obviously and of course, his mobile would ring when his coat is hanging over his arm, requiring a balancing act to extract it.

"Hey," he hears, the voice of his wife accompanied by background gurgling of a content toddler. "Would you mind picking up Tim from preschool? We're stuck in the supermarket, a tree branch gave way or something and they won't let us out until the fire brigade rescues us all."

"Yeah, no problem. I was just heading home."

"Great. See you."

Jacob drops the mobile on the passenger seat, along with his coat and starts the car. Main Street would still be blocked; the uprooted trees caused more trouble than anyone anticipated. He groans to himself when he realizes the only way to pick up Tim is to drive halfway around the city, right past the pastures. With cows.

Tomorrow cannot come soon enough.

By the time Jacob gets to the preschool Tim is already waiting outside, waiting for his turn on the slide. Jacob waves and Tim runs to meet him, breathless and flushed. "Hi daddy!"

"Hey there. How was your day?" Jacob asks, picking up his son. "Did you make anything cool?"

"We drew animals. I drew a cow." His voice is a little subdued and Jacob sympathizes. At this point he would sympathize with anyone unwilling to ever see a cow again. He's had quite enough.

"How did it turn out?"

Timothy gives him a solemn look and shakes his head. "Not so good," he admits.

"I feel your pain." Jacob puts Tim on the ground and pats his head. "I saw entirely more of a cow today than I ever wanted."

"You saw a cow?" Trust a child to pick up on the uncomfortable subject.

"Yes, I have. A dead cow, to be precise."

"Wow. What happened?" Tim keeps staring at him, his brown eyes huge and curious, as Jacob fastens his seatbelt.

"A tree fell on it. It really didn't look good." Though considering what happened to animals in the cartoons Timothy sometimes watched, Jacob was willing to bet a tree falling was tame in comparison.

"Did you see it fall?"

"No, thank God."

"Can I see the cow?"

"Absolutely not!" Whoever thought children were innocent little creatures, obviously never tried telling them a story with any kind of a fight in it, or showing them a dead cow, for that matter. They'd be on it faster than the flies, poking for the squishy bits. Jacob shudders and leans his forehead against the cold metal of the car. He definitely needs to stop imagining things in vivid detail. Also, he needs a new job. Something nice and peaceful, like accounting . Maybe the school needs an accountant. That ought to calm his nerves.

"Can we have burgers tonight?" Tim asks, and Jacob groans once more. He wishes it was Friday and he had a legitimate reason to vehemently refuse. Children are insensitive little monsters, and he doesn't care what anyone else says.

Jacob walks through the front door of his house preceded by the excited little boy. He finds Deborah and Rachel in the kitchen, cooking dinner. It isn't beef, he is relieved to note, but some very colorful vegetarian stir-fry. Bless Deborah and her sixth sense.

"Hey honey." She turns to kiss him, before returning her attention to the pan.

"Mom! Why can't we have burgers?" Tim asks, staring at the vegetables with disgust as only a little boy can.

"I'm sorry, I know I said we would have burgers, but I really couldn't be bothered after the supermarket fiasco. They said the storm has wrecked some of the wiring, or something, because first the door wouldn't open and then there was the tree falling. I have no idea how it managed to stay upright for as long as it had." Deborah stirs the contents of the pan one more time and gives Tim a thoughtful look. "Go wash your hands."

"I had to look at a dead cow today," Jacob announces sitting at the table. In his mind that trumps being locked up supermarket. Obviously that isn't the case with Deborah's.

"Really? How did it die?"

Jacob looks at her in a way that he hopes conveyed all of his incredulity. "It was a dead cow. Half a ton of a dead cow. Skewered by a tree."

Deborah has the gall to laugh at him. "Sorry."

"You cannot tell me, in all seriousness, that a huge dead animal wouldn't bother you. A huge dead animal, staring at you, while being skewered by a tree."

"You threw up, didn't you?" Deborah is once again amused and Jacob loses his winner's spot. "I'm sorry. Yes, it would probably bother me." Deborah is just a thumb's width shorter than he is, and has yet to lose all the excess weight carrying Rachel added to her naturally curvaceous figure. She is solid, and strong and, overall, she has the look about her that says she wouldn't let a dead cow bother her.

"But not that much."

"I grew up on a farm, dear. I've seen plenty of dead cows before. I killed chickens with my own hands." The image is there, trying to assemble itself, and for a moment Jacob thinks he almost has it, though he honestly doesn't want to.

"You monster." Jacob feels defeated. It seems like the whole world is okay with animal guts hanging around the place, except for him. He looks at Rachel, happily gurgling in her high seat. "You didn't kill any chickens recently?" he asks her, in all seriousness. He ignores Deborah's indignant cry. "You won't grow up to be a chicken killer, like your mom, will you?"

"You know, I resent that. Killing chickens is a perfectly acceptable profession, as long as it's for food. I never killed a chicken that didn't end up on the table." Deborah bops him on the head with a spoon. "Except the crazy old one. But he was disturbing the hens, and he was old. And even then the dog ate him."

"Suddenly I think I'm either not hungry, or a vegetarian," Jacob says. "I'm not sure which."

"Well, your indecision isn't completely unfortunate, as we aren't having meat tonight and you will have to eat the vegetables so that Timmy knows they are not poisonous. Go wash your hands, I'm almost done."

Jacob returns to the kitchen in time to set the table and pour water into the jug. Timmy has settled himself in his chair, and looks at him expectantly. "Do you want to say grace?" Jacob asks and the boy nods. He folds his hands on the table and stares thoughtfully at his plate.

"Bless us, Lord," he starts, brow furrowed in concentration, "And Your gifts which we are about to receive from Your bounty, through Christ our Lord, Amen."

Jacob enjoys dinner. There are no dead animals on the table, discounting the jar of baby food, which allegedly contains chicken. Since it is about the same color and consistency as the pear dessert Rachel had the day before, Jacob doesn't let it get to him. They are probably the same thing, both far removed from clucking and feathers. It probably ought to bother him, the thought that his infant daughter is consuming food whose contents are pretty much unknown. Then again, since Rachel is happy to have it on her clothes, in her hair and on every available surface in reach, the contents are irrelevant, as so little of it ends up in her mouth. Jacob grins when the latest spoonful he feeds her ends up on the table, three feet away.

"I think she's dying for a bath," Deborah says, popping the last piece of carrot into her mouth.

"I'll do it," Jacob says, picking up the baby. He holds Rachel as far away as his arms would allow, mindful of the fact she still have plenty of ammunition on her hands.

"Can I watch TV now?" Timothy asks, swallowing with great self-sacrifice the final piece of vegetable from his plate.

"Go ahead," Deborah ruffles his hair and starts picking up the plates.

Jacob emerges from the bathroom wetter than Rachel. "I swear, I wonder sometimes which one of you is taking a bath," Deborah says, holding out a towel for Jacob to dry himself with.

"You know she likes to share the joy." Rachel's brand of sharing the joy is spreading all that she was given in an even circle around herself.

"She does." Deborah steps in and presses a kiss to his cheek, before taking over preparing Rachel for the night. Bath and diapering Jacob can do with no problem at all, but he has yet to master the subtle art of tucking an infant in so that it doesn't cry for attention the moment he leaves the room.

By the time Rachel is wrapped in her blankets and snoozing in her cot, Jacob is barely holding in his own yawns. He dreads the next few hours. Going to bed would be pointless, as he won't fall asleep at this hour anyway, but he is too tired to do anything constructive.

"Tim, go and wash up. It's time to go to bed," Deborah says, leaning over the five-year-old dozing in the huge armchair.

"I'm not sleepy, mom…"

"Yes, you are. Now go and wash up." The boy trudges upstairs, weary and disillusioned. A few moments later there is the sound of water running, then a few minutes of silence, water again and then a slam of the bathroom door.

"Sorry! I didn't mean to!" Tim yells.

"Don't yell; the baby's sleeping!" Deborah calls back.

Tim is too tired, if not too young, to appreciate the double standard.

"I'll go tuck him in," Jacob says getting off his chair.

"You do that."

Tim, for all his grumbling, is already in his pajamas and looks ready to fall unconscious as soon as his head hits the pillow. But he doesn't climb into bed just yet, waiting until Jacob seats himself down on the bed, to kneel next to his father and fold his hands on the green bedspread. "Now I lay me down to sleep," Tim starts reciting, his eyes wandering between his father and the crucifix high on the wall. "I pray the Lord my soul to keep. Dear Lord, protect me through the night and wake me up with morning light. Amen."

"Goodnight, Timmy," Jacob says, pulling back the covers and letting the boy scramble into bed. "Sleep well."

"Goodnight, daddy." Jacob leaves the door open enough for the room to be maneuverable at the darkest hour of the night. Before he goes downstairs, he looks in across the hall, finding Rachel sleeping soundly in her crib.

Downstairs, Deborah opens a bottle of wine. "I figure you deserve to relax, after a whole long day of guts and gore," she says, grinning. Alcohol is not a good idea. Jacob is certain they'll end up talking about the cow, which is not what he wants to think about, not when he is drunk. That is the last thing he needs, a comprehensive picture of a bovine abdominal cavity with a tree branch adorned by green leaves piercing the entrails.

"Oh God, yes. Alcohol," he says, reaching out for the glass.

"Isn't someone a little desperate," Deborah says, a little less humor in her voice, watching Jacob down half a glass of wine in one gulp. "It's wine, not vodka."

"I really hate cows," Jacob tells her.

"Yes, thank you. I gathered. Don't drink that fast." Deborah switches the TV on, to some romantic comedy Jacob normally would run from. Since it is the only movie that night that he is certain wouldn't contain cows, he doesn't say a thing. Half an hour into the movie he moves to the couch, to lean against Deborah and doze through the clumsily executed attempts at the heroine's part to appear convincing. He opens his eyes wider when she starts kissing her love interest, right before the credits start rolling, and finishes his wine. Their wine, as it turns out, because Deborah has abandoned her glass a while go. The movie ends and Jacob sits up, holding on to the back of the couch for dear life.

"Mommy?" Jacob turns his head. Tim is at the bottom of the stairs, staring at them. His eyes are puffy and red, a fact all the more alarming in the bluish light of the TV. He is breathing unsteadily, trying to choke down the sobbing.

"What happened, honey?" Deborah picks him up and the little boy wraps his arms around her neck. "Did you have a bad dream?" Tim nods and Deborah rubs his back comfortingly. She starts to walk upstairs, leaving Jacob to switch the TV off and lock the front door.

He brushes his teeth, holding on to the sink. He is still pale, his reflection reveals, even after the wine. "I really need another job," he tells himself. Luckily, the cheesy movie has done its job and his mind is comfortably replaying the heroine's struggles to hold on to her bikini in the clear, Mediterranean water rather than dwelling on the misfortunes of any animal. Perhaps he could get one of those bikinis for Deborah, for when they go to the beach during the summer. That would be the day.

Jacob laughs to himself, rinses his mouth and stumbles into the bedroom. Summoning the presence of mind for the evening prayer isn't easy, so Jacob settles for muttering right through "Our Father, who art in Heaven," real quick, apologizing for the haste to the Lord. By the time he hears Deborah curl next to him his eyes are drooping, and his head feels like it is made of pure solid gold. "Goodnight," she whispers and Jacob smiles in reply.

He is really disgruntled when he wakes up an hour later, his bladder demanding a trip to the toilet. Jacob gets up with a muffled curse, and navigates through the dark bedroom, out into the hall and into the bathroom. He closes the door before he turns on the lights. "What the…" he mutters, when the light bulbs flicker simultaneously. Puzzled, he taps the nearest one with his finger. It flickers again. Jacob stretches his neck and makes a mental note to inspect them in the morning. He washes his hands and switches the lights off. He looks into Rachel's nursery on his way back. To his surprise, the baby is moving in her cot – she's rolled onto her stomach and is attempting to crawl to the headboard.

"It's the middle of the night, Rachel," Jacob tells her, turning her over once again. "Time to sleep."

She gurgles at him. Jacob smiles and then frowns. Tim's bedspread is lying on the floor, next to the sofa along with his pillow. "Tim?" Deborah would have mentioned it, if she'd put Tim to sleep in Rachel's room. Jacob wracks his brain but he cannot remember. Perhaps she had, and he just didn't register. The bigger question, however, is where is he? Jacob turns to Rachel and tickles her chin. "Where's your brother, hm?"

Her head turns towards the ceiling and as the shadow on the pillow shifts Jacob sees a dark spot on the pale yellow pillowcase. It is wet. He looks up then and sees Tim.

It takes him a long time to concentrate, for his brain to realize what he is seeing, for the knowledge to spread in his mind, finally for him to attempt to understand it. He doesn't understand. He doesn't want to understand, he is certain – in that short moment he is certain there is no way he ever could. Because his son is lying on the ceiling, like there is no such thing as gravity, like the rules of physics don't matter. His eyes are wide-open and terrified and hurting, most of all, and the little boy is staring at him, asking for answers, asking for anything that would explain the unbelievable reality of what is happening. Jacob swallows and his eyes are drawn to the dark spot on Timmy's blue pajamas, spreading across his stomach. More spots start appearing on the covers around Rachel's head. A drop lands on her nose and she starts crying. The baby's cry breaks the silent spell – Jacob opens his mouth and screams. In that moment fire blossoms around Tim, spreading all over the ceiling, latching onto the curtains, the pictures on the wall, the wallpaper and Jacob just stands there, among the flames, his head craned towards the ceiling and screams, and screams and screams.

"Jacob!" he hears Deborah's voice from the corridor. Without ever looking down he picks up Rachel, turns and runs from the nursery, following his wife out the front door just as the fire takes over the upper floor of their house.

"What happened?" Deborah asks him, breathless and terrified. Their house is ablaze, illuminating the whole street and they are standing too close, because it is burning them too, scorching their skin with heat and the pain of knowing their home is up in flames.

But the pain doesn't register, not until Deborah looks around and, her face pale as death, raises her eyes to Jacob's. "Where is Tim?" She doesn't wait for the answer, but starts running back towards the open door, towards Hell on Earth. Jacob has the presence of mind to wrap his arm around her waist and hold on, balancing between holding a crying baby on his shoulder, his frantic, screaming wife and his breaking heart.

"Deb, no!" he manages at last, though his voice is thick with tears and unrecognizable. "No."

"Tim's in there!" she yells, still fighting though Jacob knows that she knows she cannot walk back in – they are standing on their front lawn and the heat is too great already.

He is aware of the humming noise of the arriving neighbors, of the terrified whispers and cries and silent horror. They are all there, on the fringe of his consciousness, as he sinks along with Deborah to the ground, pulling her close against himself. "Deb," he says, again and again, until he is certain he knows no words other than her name.

The fire brigade arrives then, rolling through the neighborhood with the sirens blaring, waking everyone who lives within a mile. Jacob doesn't really notice. Rachel is crying again, and her voice drowns out the blazing of the fire and the wailing of the signals. He holds her tighter and hides his face in Deborah's hair. Someone is kind enough to drop a blanket on the both of them, though it's needless as far as the cold is concerned – neither he nor Deb feel the slightest bit uncomfortable. Neither he nor Deborah feel anything, except for the debilitating grief.

It takes an hour before the fire is finally wrestled under control. By then there is little left of the house, nothing to suggest that only an hour ago this was a home. There is nothing left.

Nothing left of their five-year-old boy.

"Mr and Mrs Lake?" a fireman walks over to them and Deborah looks up.

Jacob cannot see her face, but he knows how expressive she can be. He doesn't envy the man who has to look into her eyes and tell her the house is too badly damaged to allow a glimmer of hope for the survival of her son.

"Did you find him?" Deborah asks standing up.

"Find who?"

"Timothy, our son. He's five." Jacob looks at the ground, pulling the blanket around himself and Rachel. Now that the fire is gone he is cold. It is as if his body only now remembers he is kneeling on the ground in nothing but his pajamas in the middle of the night.

"Where was he when the fire started?" the fireman asks.

Deborah opens her mouth and closes it in horror. "He was in the nursery. With Rachel. I put him to sleep there, he's been having nightmares."

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but I have to ask – where did the fire start?"

"I'm- I don't know. I woke up when Jacob started screaming," she says, looking at Jacob briefly. Their eyes meet but he cannot bear to hold the connection.

"The nursery," he tells Rachel, who is dozing off on his arm. "It started in the nursery."

"Wasn't Tim there?" Deborah asks, turning to him fully. "You were in the nursery when it started, weren't you?"

Jacob looks at her and lies. "I didn't see Tim," he says, though the image of his son of the ceiling is more tangible at the moment than that of his wife, standing in a thin nightgown on the lawn. He is amazed how easy the lie is, how smoothly it passes through his lips. He wonders if it's because he cannot believe what he knows he saw. He wonders if it's because he knows it cannot possibly be true.

"I'm sorry for your loss, ma'am, sir," the fireman says. Deborah freezes as he leaves, standing barefoot on the grass, staring into space without seeing. Eventually Jacob collects himself enough to stand up and wrap his free arm around her. He barely notices Mr Wilkins approach and offer his condolences. His presence only registers when he feels a gentle, but firm, hand on his arm and realizes he is being led to the house across the street, Deborah and Rachel in tow.

"Stay here. Call whoever you need," Mr Wilkins says gruffly. "I'll make you some tea."

Jacob isn't sure if he's emotionally prepared to handle the concept of tea, but as it turns out his body craves a mug of something hot. He cradles the cup in his hands, savoring each mouthful of the heat and bitterness. Later, he realizes that is the only sensory experience other than sight he salvaged from that night, the taste of feel of strong, black tea. Everything else would fade, leaving behind a vague impression of pain and terror.

He won't remember which one of them called Anne, Deborah's sister. He recalls her being frantic and terrified; he recalls Deborah saying she ought to calm down and under no circumstances get into a car that night. He recalls her tone of voice as scary.

He remembers Rachel waking up and demanding food, loudly, unconcerned for her brother's death. He is so numb the thought doesn't even make him angry. How can it, when he cannot allow his mind to believe it? Deborah eventually asks Mr Wilkins for some weak tea and works magic with a spoon, feeding the baby. She falls asleep quarter of a cup in, and Deborah cuddles her close and curls up on the couch. Jacob doesn't move from the armchair.

Anne arrives early in the morning. Jacob realizes belatedly no one told her where would they be, because she gets out of the car and stares at the ruins of their house, bustling with firemen sifting through the wreckage. She's hyperventilating, which is all too obvious even when her back is turned. She's driven all the way, despite Deborah's explicit orders not too. Jacob smiled to himself. Deborah should have known better. He only realizes something is wrong when she starts to look around frantically, as if expecting them to walk out of the morning mist as if nothing happened, to convince her it was a joke. Jacob walks out the front door and calls her, from across the street. In a flash Anne is there, squeezing the life out of him.

"I'm so sorry," she sobs, clinging. Jacob pats her back awkwardly. "Are you okay? Is Debbie okay?"

Jacob forces a smile onto his mouth, however insincere it may end up looking and nods, though the action is painful. He is not okay and neither is Deborah. "We are safe," he says. "Deb is sleeping on the couch, with Rachel."

"Thank God," Anne whispers. Then looks up, alarmed. "What about Tim?"

Jacob averts his eyes. They are standing in a spot that allows him a full view of their house. "They didn't find him yet."

"Didn't find him?" Anne starts hyperventilating in earnest. "You mean you think he's…"

Jacob cannot bring himself to say he's sure. He settles for a tight nod and averts his eyes. He leads Anne into the house, where she wakes up Deborah with another wail and gets yelled at for her trouble. Deborah doesn't appreciate having her sleep interrupted any more than she appreciates having her explicit orders ignored. "Are you out of your mind?" she asks, crowding her little sister in the corner of the room, hissing through her teeth, because she is a mother and will not wake up her child any sooner than necessary. "You could have driven yourself into a tree, you idiot!"

"Oh, that's rich, you calling me an idiot right now. I was worried about you! You call in the middle of the night to tell me your house burned to the ground! What the hell did you expect me to do, sit back and knock a Martini?"

"Yes! Find a goddamned driver, if you were so eager! Use your brain, for Heaven's sake. Fat load of good is college education doing you, if you can't be assed to learn anything!"

Anne bites her lip in an effort not to say something she'll regret as soon as she finishes uttering the last syllable, though the effort is considerable. They glare at one another and Jacob is mentally ticking off the seconds until they start hugging. It takes just seconds, and then Deborah is shaking against her sister's shoulder. Jacob picks up a blanket and wraps it around her – the room is cold and she is still clad only in her nightgown.

"I'm so sorry," Anne whispers.

Rachel picks that moment to wake up. She wails loudly, signaling the fullness of her diaper and the emptiness of her tummy.

"We don't have any baby food," Deborah realizes, letting go of Anne. She picks up the baby and hugs her to her chest. "We need to go shopping."

Jacob doesn't remind her that all their credit cards went up with the house, along with everything else. He sits down on the couch, and covers his face with his hands. He doesn't notice Anne leaving the house and returning a short while later with a change of clothes for them both. He almost misses it when Mrs Wilkins offers him a cup of coffee. He drinks it gratefully and allows her to push him gently towards the shower. He changes into the clothes Anne acquired, and returns to his perch on the couch.

He thinks he might have seasickness. He has trouble moving, each steps requires concentration to fall in front of the previous. Either he is insane or the house is swaying in the ground, determined to upset his balance. Jacob has to admit it's doing a swell job.

Around midday there is a knock on the door. Jacob looks up at the man Mr Wilkins allows into the living room.

"Mr Lake?"

"Yes?"

"We've found your son's remains," the man says. Unspoken are the words they had to sift through the ashes for them. Jacob has been on an arson case with fatalities once. He asked for another assignment as soon as he opened the folder containing photos.

Jacob diverts his eyes to the floor. "Oh."

"I'm sorry for your loss."

Jacob doesn't move from the couch. Not until Deborah gets back, Anne and Rachel in tow.

**TBC**


	3. Chapter 3

Fortunately, if one can speak of fortune at all, at a time like this, their insurance policy is substantial. The investigation is a formality – with the flickering lights and the point of origin of the fire it's easily attributed to faulty wiring. The insurance company wastes no time paying out the money, not when the beneficiary is one of their employees. Any delays would be bad for business. With the help of Deborah's parents and their friends they manage to find a place to live, until they could get back on their feet. Jacob goes to work the following Monday, enduring the wishes and condolences with good grace.

Jacob finds the Jones file waiting on his desk after he escapes the well-wishing crowd. He stares at it for a few moments then gets up, intent on making himself a cup of coffee. Before he can get as far as an upright position, a steaming cup enters his vision. It's Nancy, standing there with tearful eyes and an envelope in her other hand.

"Double sugar, single cream, right?" she says, placing the cup on his desk.

"Yes, thank you."

"You're welcome. This arrived for you this morning." She places the envelope by the coffee. "It's from Dr Burns."

Jacob smiles and Nancy all but runs back to her own desk. Jacob sits down and tears the envelope open. "Dear Mr Lake," the first sheet reads, "My sincere condolences. Signed, Leticia Burns." He stares at the paper for a few seconds. He turns it over, just in case. He'd expect that kind of brevity from Dr Burns at her funeral, if ever.

The next page is even more surprising. "Autopsy results confirm that the majority of damage occurred post mortem. Cause of death was most likely a blow to the back of the skull, caused by a broken tree branch."

Brief and sparing him the chore of reading through the gruesome report. Dr Burns apparently has a soul. On a good day Jacob might have looked into it more closely, because "most likely" could potentially get him into trouble with the higher-ups. Today, he feels it is more than enough. Jacob opens the Jones file and stamps "claim approved" in the relevant field.

The following days prove that Dr Burns show of humanity was the beginning of a trend. No one is keen on overworking him, for which he is grateful. He has trouble focusing, which is only worsened by his inability to sleep at night.

Every time he closes his eyes he sees Tim.

He doesn't ask, but he knows it is the same for Deborah.

They are never asked to identify anything even remotely resembling remains, most likely because what has been found on site could fit into a shoebox. Jacob happened to have seen the fireman who exited the ruins of their home with a cardboard box and he was violently sick in the bushes. He hopes rain washed it away soon enough – Mrs Thompson didn't deserve such a decoration on her lawn. This was all what remained of his son?

The funeral takes place exactly one week after the fire. The sun is bright and high in the sky, all the clearer for the violence of the recent storms. The number of people who show up to pay their respects is astonishing, considering neither he nor Deborah have bothered to invite anyone in particular. Their families, of course – Mark and Fiona Lake have flown in from Miami, taking the first flight they could get on. They are standing together with Danielle and Tom Collier, consoling each other in their silent grief. Jacob finds the comfort fleeting and uncertain. He stands in the grassy graveyard, staring at the little coffin being lowered into the ground as the priest intones a Psalm, per Deborah's request.

Rachel is silent and somber in Deborah's arms. Jacob doesn't know if she understands anything about what happened, but he noticed more than once that her eyes search for something when she is being held by one of them. He feels his heart break when he realizes she is looking for her brother.

Their respective parents have to return home soon after the funeral, but Anne chooses to stay with them for a couple of weeks, or until they throw her out. Jacob is grateful for that, too. Deborah doesn't speak to him, and he really cannot find the words to talk to her, either.

It isn't his fault Tim died in the fire, he knows. It isn't hers, either. The wiring might have been faulty, and he might have been drunk, but he had seen something that defied gravity and common sense that night. He wishes his denial were stronger, maybe he could convince himself he didn't actually see it. He cannot.

He also knows that Deborah knows it isn't his fault. Well, he suspects, at any rate. Hopes. Wishes. Any and all of the above. But he understands she doesn't want consoling and that's what he'd do, the moment they start talking. So he allows the silence to grow between them, until he is no longer sure they are on the same continent, as far as the chasm between them is concerned. He wonders if they ever find their way back, then immediately he berates himself for that line of thought. They will, of course. They still communicate, just not verbally.

Every evening there's dinner on the table – Deborah decided to stop working for a while. He would have disagreed, had she told him before she made the call. As it stands she spends her time alternating between cooking and knitting, yet the weight seems to melt of her frame. Jacob is grateful to have something to do. His job is providing him with ample distraction from the harsh reality. He does understand her concerns though. Deborah, as a psychologist, shouldn't be working until she regained her equilibrium. Her choice of alternative occupation of her time is puzzling, all the same – she throws herself into knitting, which is starting to scare Jacob, because of the amount of woolly additions to their new house. Everything requires a woolen tablecloth or a serviette. He apparently requires two new sweaters, never mind the fact that it is July. Rachel has acquired a new blanket, and God only knows how many new scarves are hanging in the closet, waiting for winter. Jacob knows he has come to hate spending time in the kitchen when Deborah is preparing meals, because her affinity to chop things has grown way out of the realm of the comfortable and into the land of creepy and bizarre. That is why he carefully stirs any plate she puts before him, searching for fingers, spoons, mice, or even food substances that do not belong.

By mutual silent agreement they stopped consuming meat.

Rachel is the one they both worry about, Jacob probably more so. He is not sure how much does a baby see, or remember. How good a baby's eyesight is, for instance. Does she recognize her family? How soon and from what distance? Most important is the question Jacob tries with all his might to avoid phrasing, even in his head. Did she see?

If nothing else, that's what Jacob prays for every night. "Lord, please make her unsee, if she'd seen," he beseeches in the privacy of his mind. "Make her forget." He dares not say it out loud, for fear Deborah might hear and question the sight that weighs so heavily on his conscience. He knows he'd have to tell her, one day, but he is not keen on doing it any sooner than absolutely necessary. For one thing, he cannot believe it himself, so how can he convince his wife that is the case?

Anne is a blessing, in their silent house. She's the only one to coddle Rachel. Jacob can hear her hum lullabies and read books – he's been meaning to talk to her about her choice of literature to read to the baby, because i_Gray's Anatomy_/i isn't best known for stimulating the infant's intellect, but he cannot bring himself to find the words. At least his baby can hear a human voice, he reasons, even though it utters phrases like "mucous membrane" and "costal cartridges."

"You need to do something," Anne tells Jacob one evening. He is sitting in front of the TV, ignoring the news broadcast because it really isn't all that interesting. He is staring at a bottle of beer Deborah has placed on the table before him, daring himself to take a swing. The game has been going on for months now. He hasn't touched a drop of alcohol since the fire. By the looks of it he won't today either. Anne's eyes stray to the bottle. "Aren't you going to drink it?" she asks and when he shakes his head she gulps half of it down.

Jacob is impressed.

"Anyway. Look, you've got to start talking to Deb."

"Probably," he agrees. With the bottle gone, his eyes return to the TV. The news has given way to commercials and it strikes him how badly he doesn't need a new car at the moment. Then a baby food ad comes on and he winces. The TV is off before he has a chance to think about it.

"You realize she is going nuts."

"I noticed."

"Doesn't speak more than one word at a time."

"Yes."

"Stares at the wall whenever she isn't covering the house in wool or chopping up things."

"I know."

"I've enrolled her in a capoeira class," Anne says. "I think she needs to burn some of that knitting out of her system."

"Good."

"So, if she comes home one day and kicks your ass…?"

"Let her."

"Jimmy," Anne says and Jacob turns to give her a semblance of a glare. "Jimmy, you're worrying me."

"I know." Jacob sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Just- Give me some time, okay?"

"It's September. Rachel will be coming up with her first words soon, and neither of you will talk to her. At this rate you'd only notice when she paints it on the wall. She's crawling now, and you actually tripped over her yesterday."

Jacob looks at Anne, speechless. "I did what?"

"That's exactly what I'm talking about. No, you didn't literally trip over her, you noticed. And fell over trying to avoid stepping on her. That's how you got that bruise." She pokes his cheekbone and Jacob remembers – he had fallen the day before, he just didn't realize Rachel was there too. On second though, Anne did come running, oddly panicked. He couldn't understand why, at the time.

Then something else registers. "Capoeira?"

Anne grins and finishes the beer. "Yeah."

"She'll kill me."

"She won't." Jacob wishes he had that kind of conviction. "But to avoid being killed you have to talk to her. No, shut up. School starts again soon, and I won't be here all the time anymore. You have to start talking, or you'll really get Rachel's first word in the mail."

"I am talking."

"To me. We're not married." Jacob mutters something non-committal. "Why don't you want to talk to her, anyway?"

"We're scared," Jacob says, "That if we start talking we'll start blaming each other."

"There was nothing you could've done, either of you," Anne says. She's gripping the bottle so tightly her knuckles turn white. "It's not your fault! It's a miracle you woke up when you did, that you survived."

"You weren't there," Jacob says, and it comes out just harsh enough. For a moment he is certain the words will come spilling out – Anne is that easy to talk to – that he'd finally get the weight of his chest. He doesn't say anything more, just hides his face in his hands.

"It'll be okay," Anne says and moves to the couch to wrap her arms around his shoulders. "It'll be okay."

Jacob feels his shoulders shake and he knows he's crying. He tries not to move, but his body needs the comfort, so her wraps his arms around Anne in return and cries. He can't cry forever though, so when the worst of it passes he doesn't move. He's not comfortable, tangled in the arms of his sister-in-law, but at the same time her embrace is offering more comfort and protection he's had since the fire. So he stays.

Deborah walks in some time after that, and sees them on the couch. She doesn't speak and Jacob knows her enough to imagine her expression – eyebrow raised in a silent question – and he is so close to Anne he can feel her shrug in reply. He straightens then, stretching out the kinks in his neck and gets up. "I think I need to sleep," he says to the room at large. He isn't looking at either Deborah or Anne. He thinks he can hear them talk, when he leaves. He hopes they don't talk about him. In all likelihood Deb is getting the same scolding he's just been subject to. Anne mentioned something about leaving – now that he thought about it, he realized Deborah has been hinting at it for a couple of weeks now. Anne has her own life, even if it consists mostly of books, and she's spent the past two months coddling them.

Jacob throws himself onto the bed and stares at the ceiling. Five seconds tick by, before he turns onto his side and stares at the wall instead. Anne is right. They need to talk, he and Deborah. Problem is, how can they and where do they start?

He lies in the dark for hours, staring at the wall. Deborah comes in eventually, silent as she'd been the past few months, and gets into the bed on the other side. She doesn't fall asleep any sooner than Jacob does, but she pretends she does anyway. Jacob guesses Anne's talk didn't do as much good as she might have hoped.

Deborah is already up by the time he awakens the next morning, up and out judging by the silence in the house. Anne is gone too. Jacob is forced to guess again. They fought last night, and Deborah finally got Anne to go home. Oh, boy, now life is going to be more silent than an afternoon in outer space, he thinks and mostly he is correct. Every morning they say good morning and separately they also talk to Rachel, but whenever the house forces them to stand face to face they lower they eyes and drift apart. Sometimes words are exchanged, but these are meaningless; Deborah says she's got her classes to attend, so Jacob promises he'll put Rachel to bed; Jacob has a meeting so he'd be late for dinner… They coexist, they share the space, the utilities but something fundamental is still missing, and now that Anne is back home it hurts more than ever.

Jacob wishes with all his heart that he knew how to fix it. It takes up most of his time, until one morning a few days after Halloween. He sits on the bed, staring at the wall and thinks. Beside him the clock chimes seven a.m., and in a sudden blaze of epiphany Jacob calls in sick. He leaves the house and walks to the St Mary's. He is just it in time for the morning service.

The church is cold and empty, which shouldn't be too strange on a Thursday morning. Jacob sits in the back, listening. Father Matthews smiles at the congregation as he delivers the morning sermon. He is properly enthusiastic about what he is saying, but Jacob doesn't really listen. He watches the angels on the windows, and the light flickering on the altar. He doesn't move when the few people present wander to the altar to receive the Holy Communion. Jacob sits still, waiting. The parishioners leave, and he stays in his pew.

"Can I help you, son?"

Jacob looks up. The priest is standing by him, smiling kindly. "I was hoping you'd listen to my confession, Father," he replies.

"Of course."

Jacob rises from his chair and follows the elderly man to a confessional. He kneels on the narrow bench and waits for the priest to make himself comfortable. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been four months since my last confession."

"You had much on your mind," Father Matthews says gently and Jacob sighs.

"Yes. I have- I lied to my wife," he admits, suddenly. He is surprised with how easily that comes out, and from the silence on the other side he assumes the priest is as well.

"Lied?" Father Matthew prompts when Jacob is silent for a longer while.

"Didn't tell her the whole truth, in any case, which is not so different." He falls silent again.

"We are entitled to certain amount of privacy, my son."

"Except this concerns us both. Even if it is just me, and I need to commit myself to an institution, it still concerns us both."

"Why would you need to commit yourself?" the priest asks, a mixture of worry and wry amusement in his voice.

"I saw something, the night Timothy died," Jacob enunciates the words. They are painful to say and he doesn't want to use any more than strictly necessary. "Something I still cannot believe."

"That is why you never talked to your wife about this." That, and the fact they haven't exchanged a single meaningful word since the fire. "What was it that you saw?"

"I saw Timothy during the fire. Right before the fire broke out. I told Deborah I didn't, that he wasn't in the nursery, but he was. I saw him."

Father Matthews fell silent. "Did you abandon your son in the fire?" he asked. Jacob is silent, trying to figure out if it was judgment or compassion he's heard in the man's voice. Then he allows the indignation to the front of his mind.

"I wouldn't! He's my son, of course I would try and save him!" If only I could, he added in his head. If only I could have.

"Calm down, son. I didn't mean to accuse."

Jacob twists his hands together so tightly he feels his fingers strain with the pressure. "I know. I'm sorry." He takes a deep breath. "I saw Timothy on the ceiling."

"The image of Timothy?"

"No, Tim. Tim was on the ceiling, he was lying on the ceiling. As if the gravity wasn't working. And he was alive, he was terrified, he was staring at me! And he was on the ceiling. On the ceiling, for Heaven's sake."

"You are aware that it is impossible, Jacob," the priest says with a great deal more acceptance than Jacob expected.

"With all due respect, that is why I'm here, and not talking to Deborah. Or the fire department."

"Yes, either of them wouldn't be easy to convince," Father Matthews said. "Your wife is a psychologist, correct?"

"She is."

"I'm a little more accustomed to people making wild claims."

Jacob smiled to the confessional door. "I guess so." He relaxed his fingers and took a deep breath. "I'd been drinking that night. I am aware it's not going to make me a reliable witness, but I can't say I've got enough of an imagination to come up with something like that. Who does imagine things like that, anyway?"

"So what is it that you wanted to ask?"

"What should I do, Father?"

"For starters, you might want to finish your confession," Father Matthews says. "Then, I suggest you pray. You are in pain and prayer will grant you focus. Say the rosary. Contemplate it. Today is Thursday, fortunately; I daresay the Luminous Mysteries will guide you to the light."

Rosary is simple and familiar, but it holds little answers. Jacob bows his head. "But what do I do?"

"I think you know what you have to do."

"You mean I should talk to Deborah."

"Yes."

"I don't want to talk to her. How can I talk to her?"

"Tim is her son, also. She deserves to know."

"Yeah. I know. Doesn't make it any easier."

"Few things are easy, and those worth having are usually not easily maintained."

"It's not helping, Father."

"What would you like me to say?"

"I don't know. Maybe I'd like you to tell me I've imagined it."

"I can, if you wish. But I don't think it'd do you much good. Things that exist in our minds can be no less real than those that happen in reality."

Jacob leaves the confessional feeling worse and better at the same time. The church is still mostly empty when he slides into a pew. He looks up at the altar, to Jesus Christ stretched on the crucifix. "I believe in God, Father almighty, creator of Heaven and Earth," Jacob tells the sculpture after crossing himself. The metal of the rosary's crucifix is warm in his fingers. "I believe in Jesus Christ, his only Son, our Lord." Father Matthews was right. It is soothing. By the time he gets to announcing the Mystery he is calm enough to admit to himself what he needs to do. He hopes saying the rest will give him courage to actually follow up and talk to Deborah. "Hail Mary, full of grace," Jacob says, over and over again.

An hour passes and Jacob rises from his knees. He is calm enough to at least try and approach Deborah with something vastly unreal and hugely unbelievable. Calm about the possibility of having to sleep on the couch, being thrown out of the house and possibly threatened with the loony bin. Not that Deborah would actually throw him into a loony bin, he is entirely too balanced for that and one hallucination does not make a man insane. Worst-case scenario, they stop talking, but since he's born the brunt of that for the better part of the last few months, Jacob is not worried. He walks to their house with much lighter heart, now that he's decided on a course of action.

Deborah isn't in yet when he returns. Jacob wanders around the house finally going into the kitchen. He realizes he's hungry, which catches him by surprise. He hasn't been hungry for a while. It's just short of eleven, way too early to start making dinner. Jacob makes himself a sandwich and a coffee, and eats both while watching a completely asinine show on TV. He switches the set off, thoroughly confused by the fact that people keep paying money to watch this drivel, and returns to the kitchen.

It's still too early to make dinner, at least the kind of dinner he feels confident he can make without wasting too much food. Jacob ponders the problem and starts rummaging in the fridge. They have eggs and butter. In a sudden bout of inspiration he tracks down flour and sugar. He is halfway through mixing the ingredients in a bowl when it occurs to him to look up a recipe in a cookbook. Baking powder surprises him a little, but apparently there is some in one of the cabinets. He spreads the batter evenly in a baking tray and shoves it into the oven. The question of how hot is moderate arises briefly, but is largely ignored. It is a cake, how difficult can it be?

"You baked?" Deborah says, which causes Jacob to jump out of his skin.

"Yeah," he answers, amazed that a cake got a word out of her. "Did Anne leave?"

"Yes, finally."

"Deb, we need to talk," Jacob says taking a deep breath.

Deborah looks at him, her hair hiding most of her face in the shadows. "Yes," she says. "We probably do." Rachel gurgles against her shoulder and Deborah pats her back. "Rachel needs a nap, I'll put her to bed and come on down. Perhaps you could make us some tea?"

"Sure."

The tea is steaming by the time Deborah comes back and sits down on the couch. "Why aren't you at work?" is the first question out of her mouth.

Jacob shrugs. "I needed time to think," he says.

"I hear you," Deborah mutters. "I'm sorry." The apology is unexpected. "I've been angry with you. For no reason at all."

Jacob blinks. "I get it. It's okay."

"Not really." Deborah smiles and Jacob is positively gleeful to see the crookedness of the smile and the merry twinkling of her eyes. "But if you say so…"

"Deb, I need you to listen to me now. I know it will sound crazy, but I need you not to try and have me committed to a mental institution."

"Okay… I think I can try. I reserve the right to change my mind, if it's really crazy." She is tense now, and Jacob regrets wiping that smile away, but it needs to be done.

"I saw Tim in the nursery, the night of the fire," he says and waits for an explosion. Deborah doesn't move, but her eyes are boring into him. Jacob can taste the bitter and wrathful "what" hanging on the tip of her tongue as keenly as though it were in his own mouth. "I know I've been saying I haven't, that he wasn't there. But I did see him. That's- that was why I started screaming."

Deborah relaxes a fraction and sits back. Her face is blank. Jacob sees the clinical glint in her eyes and groans. He's going to be analyzed, which is probably better than screaming, but not exactly wife-like. "Fair enough. The situation was dire, I'm assuming his state was beyond your capabilities to handle and the fire was breaking out."

"It's not that part that worried me," Jacob admits and Deborah sits up again.

"Then what?"

"I saw him on the ceiling."

"Excuse me?"

Jacob repeats. Deborah's face betrays complete incomprehension. "I know how it sounds, believe me. But I'm not lying, and I'm not crazy. I saw Timmy, flat on the ceiling, like he was held there."

"Held there by what? Jacob, gravity." Deborah picks up the remote and drops it onto the couch. "Gravity doesn't just go away."

"I know that. I'm just telling you what I saw."

"Fair enough."

"That's it?"

"A mind is a fickle thing, dear. You were drinking, you were already unsettled, and then you walk into the nursery and find your son," Jacob is a little relieved to hear her breath catch at those words, "Dead, and a fire breaking out over the head of your infant daughter, sweetheart, that is traumatic, the kind that most people struggle with for ages. For the rest of their lives, even."

"The fire didn't start from the wiring."

"The investigation proved it had."

"The investigation was sloppy. Everyone was in a hurry to get us paid off, because it looks good when the company takes good care of its employees."

"Wow." Deborah's eyes are round and fascinated. "I've never thought I'd live to see the day when you are cynical."

"I'm realistic, it's all. Look, I have read the report. The origin of the fire was slightly off, compared to the wiring – it started a couple of feet from the chandelier. There is nothing in that spot that could have possibly caused it. I know the difference isn't much, and frankly, I'd dismiss it too. But Deb, I was there when it started, I saw it start. And wiring had nothing to do with it."

"What else could start such a fire, Jacob?" Deborah asks gently, though still hiding behind her psychologist's mask. "Logically?"

"I don't know. But I know what I saw, and before you say it, yes I was drunk, but I wasn't that drunk. Not enough to hallucinate something like this." He pauses. He needs to say it, he reminds himself. "Tim was on the ceiling, and something slashed his stomach open. Then the fire started, just like that, all around him."

"You are aware this makes no sense."

"Yes." Jacob is a little hurt that Deborah doesn't believe him. A little hurt but resigned to the fact, and has no intention of losing any sleep over it. After all, it's taken him three months to believe the testimony of his own eyes. He cannot fault Deborah for her disbelief. "It happened, Deb," he tries again.

She sighs and closes her eyes. "Okay," she says eventually. "I believe you." What she means to say is that she believes he believes it. Which means the loony bin is still a distinct possibility. Jacob stares at the floor, clenching his jaw.

"I'd better start making dinner," Deborah says. Jacob hears her walk into the kitchen and curse. Belatedly he recalls the cake and the smell that's been nagging him for the past ten minutes. To his relief there is no smoke and cake turns out to be edible, if a little overcooked. Smothered with whipped cream and punch it will be a decent dessert. Deborah puts it on the window to cool. "What cake is that?" she asks, poking it curiously.

"I have no idea."

"Which recipe did you use?"

Jacob looks at the floor, feeling stupid. "None. I just mixed the stuff together. Then it turned out I also needed to add baking powder."

He hears a snort, which transforms into a giggle. Before he knows it Deborah is laughing, like all sanity has left the building. "I'm sorry," she says clutching her tummy. "It wasn't that funny."

"Yeah, it kinda was," Jacob says and kisses her.

They are on the kitchen table when Rachel's cry sounds throughout the house. Jacob rests his head against Deb's naked shoulder. "She's probably hungry," he says, trying to catch his breath.

**TBC**


	4. Chapter 4

**September 2006**

That Sunday is the first time since the fire he and Deborah make it to the service together. Oh, they went in the same car the past few months, but now they are there together, like they used to. The awkward cake has fixed something and Jacob was profoundly grateful for it. He seated himself in the pew with Rachel in his lap and for the better part of the sermon entertained himself with watching Rachel peruse the churchgoers. She focuses on the task, chewing thoughtfully on her fingers, giving the people her undivided attention one at a time. She lets out a loud gurgle when her eyes turn to Mrs Mone. Jacob follows her gaze and smiles to himself. Her hairdo is even more ridiculous than usual, piled on top of her head in a form that Marie-Antoinette would be proud to don. Next, Rachel looks at her husband, a solemn man who has, to Jacob's knowledge, never looked up from his clasped hands in the history of holy mass. He prays in earnest, though silently, and his wife prays with him. With the exception of the hair she is a thoughtful and serious old lady. She's even babysat Rachel on a couple of occasions.

Rachel laughs and Jacob shushes her. The sermon is over and Jacob goes down on his knees, bowing his head before the transubstantiated body of Christ that the priest is holding in the air. She seems to understand then seriousness of the moment, because when Jacob looks at her again she, too, is serious, staring at the altar in concentration. Father Matthews raises the chalice in shaking hands and again Jacob bows his head in adoration.

He is thankful, again.

Deborah takes Rachel from him when it's time to go to communion, nodding encouragingly. Jacob accepts the body of Christ from the hand of Father Matthews and crosses himself. If he stays kneeling there a little longer than everyone else, no one takes notice. Jacob walks back to their pew, to take Rachel and allow Deborah to go to communion herself. The baby smiles and snuggles into his arms. Jacob smiles back and drops a kiss on her forehead.

They wait until most of the people vacate the church before leaving. For once they are in no hurry to get home, not when just sitting there feels comfortable and the silence is no longer stifling. That thought holds Jacob's attention for a moment, because it is amusing that now that they are talking again, as soon as they can be, they are silent. It doesn't matter though. This silence is good and comforting.

"Jacob, Deborah." Father Matthews materializes by their side before they get up. He's still wearing the celebratory robes, and his breath is rushed, as if he were in a hurry to get to them. "If I may have a word with the two of you?"

"Certainly, Father. Did something happen?" Deborah asks.

"Yes and no. I have another mass to celebrate soon enough and this could take a while. If you could come by my house later in the day, perhaps?" the old man is agitated and sorrowful.

"We can do that, yes," Jacob says, more and more puzzled.

"Six p.m. then, if you will," the priest says and leaves them, staring after him in surprise.

"Let me guess," Deborah says, her smile gone. "You confessed." Jacob understands the unspoken scorn.

"Who else was I supposed to talk to?" he asks, defensively. Deborah opens her mouth, but says nothing. He couldn't have talked to her, obviously. Not about that.

"Here's hoping he won't think it prudent to exorcise you." She snatches the car keys from Jacob's pocket and walks to the door. "Let's eat out," she says.

Six o'clock was scarce two hours away, so going home would be pointless. They drive to the nearest steak house and gorge themselves. Jacob manages even to top the meal off with a beer, to his own surprise. "At least you'll go to the loony bin well-fed," Deborah laughs.

"I'm not going to the loony bin," Jacob protests.

Funny how the words come back to haunt him later, when Father Matthews starts talking. But that comes later. At five past six Deborah parks in the driveway beside the parish house Father Matthews lives in and kills the engine. "I see no ambulances, or other cars. That's got to be good news, right?"

"Oh, sod off," Jacob grumbles unfastening Rachel's seatbelts. She is half asleep already. Deborah changed her during dinner, so there ought to be little trouble even if the visit were to be longer than expected. Jacob hopes they'll be able to lay her to sleep on the couch, while they talk.

"I'm glad to see you," Father Matthews says opening the door. "Please, come in."

Jacob follows the elderly man into the cozy library, which apparently doubles as the living room – there are old couches wedged between the bookshelves, and there's no question which of those don't really belong. "Make yourself comfortable, I'll put on the kettle." Jacob and Deborah share a look as the priest potters about in the kitchen, pouring boiling water into three teacups.

"What is it about, Father?" Deborah asks, finally losing her patience when Father Matthews springs up for the third time, having forgotten the cookies.

"Sorry. Forgive an old man." He folds his hands and gives them a long look. "You have to understand I don't want to tell you this. I like to think it's my job to protect you, as my congregation, but obviously there's so little I can do."

"Is this about the fire, Father?" Jacobs asks.

Before he can get a reply, which he can tell will be positive, Deborah speaks up. "With all due respect, Father, no matter how hard you pray, you cannot protect us from accidents."

"You don't believe in the power of prayer, Deborah?"

"Of course I do, Father, but I don't think it is at all supernatural."

"The Lord works in mysterious ways, Deborah."

"Tell me, Father, did you hear the one about the man who couldn't swim, caught on his roof during a flood?"

"Indeed I have."

"God helps those who help themselves," Deborah says. "And we can't prevent an accidental fire, Father."

"But it wasn't so accidental, was it?" Jacob says, intrigued now.

"Jacob!"

"I'm just saying, it was not a usual fire," he says.

"I'm afraid Jacob is right," the priest says.

Deborah whips her head to look at him in turn. "Father, this isn't helping."

"And I fear it won't." The old man stares down at his hands. "There is evil in this world," he says eventually. "Evil things that seek to hurt people, for no reason at all."

"Yes, and usually those things are other people," Deborah says firmly. Jacob can do nothing but listen with his mouth open.

"No. I don't mean people." The old man gets up and fetches a book from his desk. It looks old; the covers are leather and the letters are, from what Jacob can see, written in longhand. The priest hands the book over the teacups and Jacobs starts leafing through it, so that Deborah too can see. The first chapter is entitled "ghosts and restless spirits", followed by "ghouls", "vampires", "werewolves"…

"Father, you cannot be serious," Deborah says, almost at the same time as Jacob raises his head and asks, "You think one of those things killed Tim?"

"Jacob!"

"What?"

"You cannot be serious! There is no such thing as ghosts, never mind werewolves. Certainly you don't believe a werewolf has killed our son."

"No, not a werewolf," Father Matthews interjects. He looks as thought he is about to add something, but doesn't. "There is a number of things that could do it, starting with ghosts."

"I think you both need therapy," Deborah says, sitting back. "I don't really want to offend you, Father, but you have to admit this is ridiculous."

"I can't argue with that, child." The old man's smile is disarming. "I know how it sounds, I was in your position not too long ago. But I must ask you to hear me out."

Jacob nods, and Deborah, though obviously under duress, acquiesces also. "Fine," she says.

"I realize there is no tangible proof that I can offer," he begins, "Not until something actually starts happening. Unfortunately, with those things when something starts happening it is already too late. You may recall the death of Theodore McVille?"

Jacob nods. "I handled his life insurance policy. He committed suicide."

"He didn't."

"The evidence was conclusive, no one had access to him for hours before or after his death. His wrists were slashed, so it was no accident either."

"Not unless the perpetrator was incorporeal."

Deborah laughed. "You're telling us that a ghost walked through the wall and slashed his wrists? That a ghost killed a man and made it look like a suicide?"

"I realize it may not make much sense to you, logically. But," Father Matthews pulled out a manila folder and opened it. Inside it there were a number of what looked like photocopies of newspaper articles. Jacob leafed through them. The oldest copy was a uniform grey in color, which indicated the original must have been yellowed with age. On the bottom someone scribbled a date. 23rd of October 1942. It was underlined, twice. The article was a short piece of news: a woman's body was found in her own attic, her wrists slashed. Police confirmed the case as suicide and her grieving husband inherited a hundred thousand dollars.

"What you're looking at is the case that started it all. The murder of Penelope Worthing."

"It says here it was a suicide."

"It wasn't. She was murdered by her husband for the money."

"Which is fascinating, from a number of angles, I'm sure. Why do we care?" Deborah asked, reading over Jacob's shoulder. Attached to the news clipping was another sheet, detailing Mrs Worthing's age, address and state of possession. Several items, her house included, has been underlined in the same blue ink the date was.

"Because that woman is the reason Theodore McVille is dead," Father Matthews says, folding his hands in his lap.

"Killed him from beyond the grave, you mean. Sixty years after her death."

"Correct."

"Wonderful. Is there anything else we should know? Tooth fairies out for blood? Murderous Santa?"

"Perhaps later. Ghosts are most usual. They are angry spirits who didn't move on, because they feel wronged, in some way."

"But why did she kill Theodore?" Jacob turned a page. "And Andrew Smith? And Francine Burns?" There were more. All cases ruled as suicide.

"Ghosts usually select a very particular prey," Father Matthews explained. "In Penelope's case the people who were killed were people who gained money through illicit means. She learned of them, so to speak, when they came in contact with her old house."

"Cheerful. Is there more?" Deborah asked, drinking her tea.

"I understand that nothing I say will ever be convincing enough. I took the liberty of calling a hunter who helped me with putting Penelope to rest."

"Wait." Deborah raised her hand. "Penelope Worthing? As in the woman whose grave was desecrated four years ago?"

Father Matthews smiled, but it was a sour, forced smile. "I see you have an excellent memory, child."

"I've been treating the kids who were scared to death by the grave robbers."

"They weren't grave robbers, precisely."

There is a moment of silence and the Deborah's eyes narrow. "Oh, no. That's it." She gets up and picks up the sleeping Rachel. "It is one thing to tell me ghost stories, but grave desecration?"

"Deborah…"

"No. I'm leaving. And unless you want to walk home, you're coming too," she said turning to Jacob.

Reluctantly he got up and followed her to the door. Of course, he didn't believe it. It was crazy. And disturbing graves was plain wrong.

But…

"Wait," Father Matthews said catching up to them on the driveway. "You can go, I'm not stopping you." He handed Jacob a piece of paper. "This is a number of a man who deals with the supernatural, a hunter. He may be able to tell you more."

"I'm pretty sure I don't want to know more," Deborah says and slams the car door shut. Rachel wakes and protests loudly, but her mother is already starting the engine. Jacob does not hesitate long before getting in. Deborah would drive off, just to prove a point. She is silent on the way home. Jacob is left to console Rachel on his own.

"You want to call him, don't you," Deborah says after he returns downstairs, Rachel settled into bed. Jacob looks at her, apologetic.

"It cannot hurt."

"There are a number of ways in which it can hurt. Look, I know you hurt and we haven't dealt with Tim's death properly. Hell, we spent the past months ignoring one another. But going after some charlatan, who'll tell us some bullshit story, which would be most likely what we want him to tell us, forgive me for saying but that's idiotic."

"It's not like they're asking for our money," Jacob says, petulant.

"It's not like we have all that much to give," Deborah shoots back. "There are people who get their kicks out of convincing people of such things, money or not." Jacob doesn't bother pointing out that Deborah clearly doesn't want to hear the things he does, and therefore they have a balanced point of view between them. "I'm not convincing you, am I?"

"No, I hear you," Jacob says. "It's just, Deb, I wasn't that drunk. I know what I saw. I don't hallucinate all that often."

"You've never lost a child before, honey. Grief can do things to your mind, without you even realizing it."

"He was alive when I saw him," Jacob says quietly, and Deborah shakes.

"Fine," she says after a moment of silence. "Fine. We'll go to that man. We'll go and we talk, but I swear to God, if you so much as think of talking to him without me being there, you will regret it. Is that clear?" Her expression is scary as she says it and Jacob nods automatically. He thinks of capoiera and knives and chopping. "I still think it's a bad idea," she adds.

"I know."

"Where does he live?"

"Uh, Texas," Jacob says, looking at the address. "We could go there next weekend."

"Fantastic. My favorite way to spend a weekend." Deborah sighs and looks at the ceiling. "Okay. Let's go. I'll call my parents and ask if Rachel can stay with them for the weekend, we can have a road trip."

"Road trip?"

"We have to drive two thousand miles there and back and we're not going to waste a perfectly good weekend. We might as well enjoy it," Deborah says and her smile turns impish. Jacob grins.

It turns out Deborah's parents are more than happy to have their granddaughter with them for the weekend. Their own daughter isn't enough, Deborah remarks under her breath, making sure Anne hears. Anne doesn't seem to mind the jibes – she picks up her niece and coddles her, wishing them a pleasant trip. They pack an overnight bag that Friday evening, Jacob makes reservations in a hotel closest to the house Father Matthews directed them to and they are off, on a dark and early Saturday morning.

"Isn't this going to be fun," Deborah says when they reach the interstate, yawning with every other word.

"It might."

"I have no idea what made you such an optimist."

Jacob shrugs. "Ah, this and that." He thinks mostly about the scare his father had with the cancer surgery. To this day the doctors monitor him carefully, because a spontaneous remission is nothing something to be taken lightly.

"I just wish you'd be a little more skeptical," she says, rolling the window down. "It will most likely be a massive hoax."

Jacob doesn't reply. This may well be a massive hoax. He isn't that naïve, whatever Deborah sometimes says. He has to hope, however, has to hope that someone, somewhere, will be able to make sense of Tim's death. He is, at the same time, certain that no one ever could. It's a philosophical conundrum he's in, and he doesn't have all that much to hold on to.

They make good time and several hours later they pull in front of the house. It looks lonely, most of all. It looks as though the occupant hasn't had any visitors in a long, long while, most likely because he didn't want any. The "get the fuck away" vibe is very strong and Jacob shudders when they approach the front door. Deborah touches his arm and points to one of the security cameras monitoring the door.

"Looks like someone didn't want any unexpected guests," she says. "Paranoia is not pretty."

"It's not paranoia if they are really out to get him," Jacob counters and Deborah rolls her eyes. "Well, you don't know if they aren't." He knocks on the door and when it opens he wonders how come this man was never arrested. He makes no attempt at hiding the gun he's pointing at them, nor is there any sign that he is willing to give them the benefit of the doubt. "Uh. Would you mind pointing the gun somewhere else?" Jacob says, in a strangled voice. The door is barely open and the man's face is frightening, peeking at them from the shadows.

"Who are you?" the man snarls, the gun unwavering.

"I'm Jacob Lake, and this is my wife, Deborah. We're from Father Matthews' parish." The gun lowers, but Jacob can tell, from the way Deborah's fingers are digging into his shoulder, that it might still go off. "Father Matthews gave us your address, we were hoping you could tell us something."

"Come in," the man says brusquely, undoing the chain and taking a few steps back.

They walk through the door slowly, keeping their hands in plain sight. Jacob isn't rightly sure what has given him the courage to walk into the house of a man who greets his visitors with a gun, but he assumes Deborah would stop him if the alleged hunter seemed like he might fire. The man keeps staring at them, distrustful, even though it's plain to see they have no weapons. His paranoia must be acute, Jacob thinks.

"What will you drink?" the man asks.

"We're fine, thank you," Deborah says, but it doesn't seem to go over well. The gun makes a minute twitch and she hastily amends. "Tea would be perfect."

"Good." He allows them into the living room and closes the door. A few minutes later he returns, carrying two cups of tea. "Drink," he says, and stares at them until they raise the cups to their lips. So far as Jacob can tell the tea is perfectly fine. Obviously the ritual means something, though, because the man relaxes ever so slightly and finally puts the gun away. Jacob breathes out in relief. "Apologies. These days a man cannot be too careful," the strange man says. "My name is Steve Wandell. But I assume you knew that."

"We got your name and address from Father Matthews," Deborah says, looking around.

"Well, what is it?"

"What is what?" Jacob asks.

"People don't seek out hunters, not unless they suspect there might be a job for them. Father Matthews knows that."

"Hunters?"

Mr Wandell's eyes narrow. "You must know something, if Father Matthews sent you here." His eyes flicker between their faces and the tea and it's becoming so obvious Jacob has to ask.

"Excuse me, what did you put in the tea?"

"Holy water," the man replies and Jacob drops the cup on the table.

"You put holy water in tea?" he asks, aghast.

Mr Wandell rolls his eyes. "Don't give me that look, boy. There's no better way to confirm you are not possessed."

"Possessed?"

"There's all manners of things wandering God's green earth, and demons are by far the worst. They'd rip you open and laugh while you grope for your guts."

"Okay, tone the imagery down," Deborah says, rubbing circles into Jacob's suddenly stiff back.

"What do you want?" Mr Wandell asks again.

"We don't want anything."

"Then you are clinically insane."

"I have been telling him that, for a while now," Deborah says, humor lost in her voice as she indicates Jacob with her chin. "But he won't listen."

"I listen," Jacob protests.

"What did you see?" Mr Wandell asks studying the both of them. Jacob can feel Deborah stiffen beside him and the comforting hand ceases its movement. She is silent though, and Jacob just knows she won't try and talk him out of saying it, however bad an idea she may think it is.

"Our son died, in June." Jacob pauses, half expecting the condolences to start pouring out, but the man says nothing. "There was a fire. It started in the nursery, with the ceiling wires." He ponders the next words carefully, turning them over in his head. "I was in the bathroom and the lights started flickering, on and off. Rachel was awake, I remember that, so I went into the nursery to see if she were okay." Jacob stares unseeing at the coffee table, recalling the details. "There was a spot of blood on her pillow. Like it fell there. And Tim was on the ceiling. He was just- He was on the ceiling. Staring at me. Then the fire started, and it started from Tim, not the wires."

Thrice now he told the story and it was just as bad this time around. The only gratification was that Mr Wandell was looking at him with curiosity and some kind of understanding, belief even.

"There is a number of things that could have caused that," he says, then he gets off the chair and retrieves a bottle of whisky from a cabinet. He pours Jacob a shot.

"Thanks, but I don't drink."

"No? You look like you need it." The man doesn't drink himself.

Deborah shrugs and takes the glass instead. "Maybe it'd start making sense now," she says putting the shot glass down next to her teacup.

"Do you have any enemies?" Mr Wandell asks. He picks up a few loose sheets of paper and starts jotting down notes.

"People who'd want to burn our house down?" Deborah's eyebrows rise. "I don't think so."

"What do you do for a living?"

"That is none of your business."

"You've given me your names, I will find out. It could be important," Mr Wandell says glaring at Deborah. "It'll go faster if you cooperate."

Deborah rolls her eyes. "I'm a psychologist. Jacob is an insurance agent."

"Ah. Well. Is it remotely possible someone died because of anything either of you might have done?"

"What?" Jacob stares at the man, feeling rather dumb. Then the implication registers and he is indignant, then angry. "What? How can you say that?"

"Is it?"

"No," Deborah says, and Jacob is amazed to hear the complete and utter serenity in her voice. "My patients are usually nowhere near that level of disturbed and Jacob mostly deals with property damage."

"People aren't usually too positive about insurance agents."

"Yes, well, Jacob has had no trouble. Unless you count his bosses, who all seem to think he's altogether too lenient."

"Any old girlfriends? Boyfriends? Extra marital affairs?" This time both Deborah and Jacob give him the evil eye.

"No," they say simultaneously.

"Are you sure?"

"We're Catholic," Jacob says icily, which is a tone of voice he doesn't have a chance to employ often.

"I find that denomination doesn't carry all that much weight, where human nature is concerned."

"We're faithful," Jacob says.

"So no ex-girlfriends out for your blood?"

"I haven't been with anyone else since I was eighteen," Jacob says. Deborah nods.

"What about the house?" Mr Wandell is scribbling something, and Jacob can recognize every third word of the crummy shorthand, if he squints – , flames, positive, bossy.

"What about the house?" Deborah asks.

"How long have you been living in there?"

"Since we got married, seven years ago."

"Did anyone die there?"

"Not to my knowledge." There is a certain amount of satisfaction in Deborah's voice, as though proving the man wrong is a goal she's set herself.

"Well, there are a number of things that could have done something like that. Spirits, most notably." Mr Wandell scans the page he's just written and frowns. "Spirits, ghosts, poltergeists, most likely. Very few corporeal creatures are capable of such feats. Of course, spirits most often have a cause to hunt who they do."

"We haven't hurt anyone," Jacob insists.

"Perhaps not. I have just put to rest a spirit of a girl whose heart was transplanted after a hit and run. She's killed five people the recipient knew who violated traffic regulations."

"Seriously?" Jacob doesn't know if he should be fascinated or horrified. He settles for a mixture of both that leaves him with a sour aftertaste in his mouth.

"Did you desecrate her grave, too?" Deborah asks, and Jacob feels horrification dominate the mixture.

"No." The man glances at them warily, but the corner of his mouth is twitching. "The point of grave desecration, as you put it, is to purify the remains with salt and fire, so that the spirit has nothing to cling to. It wouldn't do much good in this case, as you may imagine."

"So what did you do?" Jacob asks, interested despite himself.

"There are more ways to be rid of a ghost. Salting and burning the remains is the easiest and most foolproof. And what you say about desecration, remember that spirits are no longer human. They would hurt the living, if they perceive them to deserve it, and let me tell you – their standards are clear cut, black or white, no in-betweens."

"I don't understand," Jacob says, even though Mr Wandell is clearly looking at Deborah now, talking to her, almost exclusively.

"You are a psychologist, you say. Then you must know how obsession works and trust me, it is worse when the mind doesn't have hunger or pain to distract them."

Deborah doesn't answer. She gives Jacob a look that tells him, right, here is a woman who's talking to a man she would normally call the cops on, talking about things she gets paid to help people get over, just because he thinks it will make him better. Jacob doesn't think he's ever loved her more.

"Can you find out what caused the fire?" Jacob asks.

"Yes," the man replies simply.

"Why?" The look on Deborah's face is guarded; she is looking for the fine print, no doubt.

"Because it's my calling in life, Mrs Lake," Steve Wandell answers in all seriousness. "Since you are here, asking, I have to warn you – I will be investigating your background. And I won't care if there are laws saying there are things I shouldn't know."

"Oh, so not only are you sacrilegious, you are also a stalker, is that it? Is that why Father Matthews called you a hunter?"

"Mrs Lake, I save lives. You may not appreciate it, ever, on account of your son being already dead, but my sacrilege has saved many innocent lives."

Deborah's eyes narrow and she doesn't say anything more, leaving Jacob to say their farewells. "I'll call you if I find anything," Mr Wandell says instead of the more traditional "goodbye" and Jacob nods. Deborah is silent until they get into the car. Once the house is safely in the rear view mirror she explodes.

"I don't like this man, Jacob," she says. "He is dangerous. He is obsessed. I don't want him anywhere near Rachel or you."

"He might find out-"

"If you say 'what killed Tim', so help me I will hurt you," Deborah's voice rises and Jacob clenches his jaw. "That man is a lunatic who believes he's on a holy mission, and there is nothing he'd let stand in his way. He is dangerous and he is capable of doing much damage."

"He seemed sincere."

"Jacob, he believes in what he does. Of course he sounds sincere. I hate to tell you, but many serial killers believe that what they do is right, too."

"He doesn't strike me as a serial killer."

"Am I talking to an empty car here? He is a man who wouldn't hesitate if he thinks he's right, and he is armed. Am I the only one who's wary of him having our home address?"

"No, of course not." Jacob thinks back to the sentence he's just heard. "We didn't give him our home address."

"And how long will it take him to find out, do you think? He knows our names and he knows Father Matthews."

"Yes, he knows Father Matthews," Jacob perks up suddenly. "Don't you think if he was dangerous, like you say, Father Matthews wouldn't send us here?"

"I have my doubts about Father Matthews," Deborah mutters, and crosses her arms across her chest. "Look, I'm not comfortable with this. I think we should install an alarm in the house."

"If it makes you happy, okay."

"Were you that much of a moron when we met? I just wonder because, you know, I might have reconsidered."

Jacob's mouth opened wide. "What?"

"Did you pause to listen to yourself? You've just given a guy who pulls a gun on people who knock on his door the a-okay to investigate your life. Possibly your home. We have a baby in the house."

"I didn't give him any permission!"

"Sometimes you are reaching whole new levels of idiocy."

"He won't hurt us," Jacob says. "How can you believe I would let anyone hurt you or Rachel?"

Deborah gives him a look that chills him to the bone. "Right now I'm not so sure."

Jacob slams the brakes and at the last moment pulls over. "What?" he asks turning to face his wife.

"I agreed to coming here because I thought it might help you deal. Right now it seems it might do more damage than good."

"Deborah…"

"I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt, but I swear, Jacob, the moment I see him snooping where he shouldn't be, I will shoot him in the head, then I'll call the police."

The expression she is wearing now Jacob has never seen on her face before. For the first time in his life he is scared of Deborah, because although the expression is alien and unfamiliar, the tone holds a note he recognizes. This is the tone that will accept no arguments and allow no mistakes. "Deb," he says, speaking slowly as the words are slow to form in his mind. "If he puts a toe out of line, I'll shoot him myself, I promise."

Deborah rolls her eyes, but her mouth curves in a smile and she is his Deb again, not the scary woman who threatened to kill a man just moments ago. "Glad we understand each other."

Jacob rests against his back seat and breathes in deep. You think you know someone, he thinks looking up. He starts up the car again and drives straight to the hotel. He is discovering he is a little hungry and quite turned on by Deborah's vicious side. The fact that Deborah is still angry and not just a little worried contributes and they end up ordering room service. Allowing the valet in proves to be a problem as they are half naked and very aroused by the time the food is done, but where there's a will there's a way and they are able to enjoy a fantastic post-coital dinner, even if it is cold.

It is not enough to dispel the frown line marring Deborah's forehead, however.

"Promise me something, Jacob," Deborah asks as she rests her cheek against his shoulder.

"Anything."

"Never talk to Father Matthews or this Wandell man alone again."

Jacob stares at the ceiling. "You know Father Matthews is my confessor." Come to think of it, he is Deborah's too.

"Go to someone else then."

Jacob closes his eyes. "Okay." He finds Deborah's hand and squeezes it. "I promise."

That promise is easy enough to keep. Father Matthews seems to understand why Jacob and Deborah are avoiding him, even though he makes a point of stopping them every chance he gets and asking if they are all right. They are, owing mostly to the fact that they haven't seen or heard Steve Wandell ever since they visited him. Deborah seemed to relax; a week after they returned from West she called the clinic she worked in – her job was waiting for her, they said. They were getting anxious, but they would be more than happy to have her back, Jacob hears the enthusiasm from the other side of the room.

"So, they want you back?" he asks putting the newspaper down.

"Apparently, yeah."

"We need to hire a sitter then."

"I've already called Mrs Mone, she said she'd be happy to look after Rachel."

Jacob smiles and then Deborah smiles and they kiss and everything is right in the world, until the following week, when Jacob walks into the kitchen on Thursday afternoon and finds Deborah disassembling a gun. It is one week till Christmas and Deborah is sitting at the kitchen table lubricating a gun, which looks a lot meaner on Jacob's kitchen table than it usually does in TV.

"Jesus Christ!" he gasps. He trips and almost breaks his head open on the edge of the table. At the last moment he manages to catch the cabinet, which wobbles but stabilizes his momentum. "What is that?"

"Don't take the Lord's name in vain," Deborah answers calmly, "And it's a gun, obviously. Semi-automatic Beretta 92, to be more specific."

"I can see it's a gun, why are you playing with it?"

"I'm not playing, I'm cleaning. I got it this morning, I wanted to make sure it's serviceable."

"What do you need a gun for?" Jacob wants to ask, then remembers Steve Wandell. "Please don't shoot me," he says holding his hands up.

Deborah laughs. "I won't." She puts the pistol together again and aims it at the cabinet. "I've never actually used a revolver, but there's first time for everything, right? I'm going to the range tonight. Wanna come with?"

If there is one thing Jacob is sure of, it's that he doesn't want to see his wife shoot a gun right now. Maybe never. Even seeing her hold it, even though its plainly unloaded, since the magazine is still on the table, makes him feel uneasy. "No thank you," he manages and leaves the kitchen.

He is halfway up the stairs when the emotions get the better of him and he punches the wall, hard. "Fuck!" He wishes he'd listened to Father Matthews. He wishes he'd never told him about the crazy hallucination. For all he knows, crazy is contagious and everyone got it from him. There was no other explanation for this- this madness. Deborah got a gun? What the hell for? All because of him and his stupid hallucinations. Jacob swears he will never again touch liquor, if that's the consequence. He reaches the top of the stairs, turns, and walks right back into the kitchen.

"Deb, I don't want you to learn to shoot."

Deborah looks at him and raises a brow. "Honey, I know my way around a gun. I hunted with my dad. I just need to familiarize myself with this one." She takes a long look at his hands on the table and then looks into his eyes again. "What happened to your hand?" she asks, taking it in hers. Jacob hisses in pain when she starts kneading the skin.

"I punched the wall," he admits and then hisses again.

"I think you've broken a bone," she says and Jacob has to agree. He can't move his fingers too well and it is starting to swell, judging by the stiffness and the heat. Deborah leaves the gun on the table and Jacob eyes it warily as she fetches a bag of ice.

"Perfect. Just perfect," he sighs and gets up.

"Let me just get Rachel and I'll drive you to the hospital."

"I'll call a cab," he says. He stares at the road ahead as the cab takes him to the hospital. The doctors are kind and pleasant and very supportive. Jacob wants to punch them. The pain is starting to register slowly and he fights the nausea that follows, fortunately one of the orderlies is kind enough to offer some white pills which make him sleepy and more indifferent to the fact that apparently two of the metacarpal bones of his right hand are fractured.

"Fortunately, these are just cracks, and don't require surgery," the doctor says holding up the x-rays. "What happened?"

"I punched the wall," Jacob says, still relaxed and sleepy.

"Ah. May I suggest some anger management?"

"Thank you, but no." Jacob watches with detached curiosity as the doctor splints his hand. He'll be lucky if he returns to his usual typing speed anytime soon.

"How's the hand?" Deborah asks him later that night. The gun is gone, though the implication of its presence is keenly felt. Jacob shudders when Deborah lays a hand on his shoulder and hands him a hot cup of tea.

"It'll heal," he says. "Deb, it's really making me uncomfortable."

"The gun?"

"Yeah."

"I've put it away, but I want it where I can reach it. In case something happens."

"Something?"

"Can we not talk about this?"

"We have a baby in the house."

"Trust me, I know how to hide a gun from a toddler who's just started to stand." Which is a fair point to make. Rachel will not be walking around the house, poking for stuff for a while yet. "It would be a little more difficult hiding it from an adult."

They have trouble talking, the colder the weather gets, though it's less a problem with the weather and more that of Christmas approaching. This Christmas Tim would have been just old enough to wake up at the crack of dawn on his own and run into the living room to pounce on the presents underneath the tree. The silence of the Christmas morning is therefore startling and physically painful, after the anticipation both of them built up this time last year. Somehow it hasn't faded. Jacob pretends he doesn't hear Deborah crying into her pillow as he takes a shower. He doesn't feel strong enough to go out and comfort her, not when he has trouble keeping his breath even as he stands underneath spray of water.

It isn't fair, Jacob thinks scrubbing at his hair with one hand. Timmy loved the Christmas season, from late night mass to the sparkling lights on the Christmas tree.

Christmas dinner is tense. This year was the first that they were going to host the family dinner at their house, except after what happened neither of them felt up to it. Mercifully, Deborah's parents took the job off their hands. Even so the families pick up on the tension between them in no time at all – there's something about a family dinner that makes the slightest dissonance heard. Grandmothers and grandfathers, mothers and fathers, an aunt and one toddler make for one hell of a symphony, one that only works if everyone is happy enough to let everyone else have the proverbial last piece of cake. Jacob, however, is morose even as he tries to put a smile on for the sake of the family, and Deborah is grim and serious. No one comments on it. They are still grieving, each and every one of them, and they acknowledge Jacob and Deborah's pain in the face of the festive cheer.

Rachel seems to be the only one in genuinely high spirits. She munches on the homemade turkey paste her grandmothers have lovingly prepared for her and shares with the world by spreading a thin layer of it around herself. Jacob watches her with a small smile on his face, but it's not really her he's seeing. He remembers last year, when Tim was the one sitting in the high chair and Deborah had to prop the plate on her pregnant belly instead of the table, she was so big. He remembers the year before that, when Debbie sat with Timmy in her lap, because he'd been spooked by the life-sized Santa on the neighbor's lawn.

Three years' worth of Christmas joy rendered into a void of self-loathing and pain. He wouldn't have thought it possible before.

**TBC**


	5. Chapter 5

**January 2007**

The phone call takes them by surprise on a cold January evening. Deborah is the one who picks up and Jacob can see her struggle to remain civil and not just slam the receiver onto the set. When she finally does the movement is slow.

"What did he say?" Jacob asks. He only got Deborah's side, which consisted of noncommittal grunts and a couple of okays. He knows it was Steve Wandell she's just talked to. Very few people managed to put that pinched look on Deborah's face.

Deborah purses her lips. "He said he has to talk to us. Immediately and in person."

"What do we do?"

Deborah is silent for a long while. "We are going to drive to Texas, again," she says, though it is plainly the last thing she wants at the moment, or ever.

"Are you sure?" Jacob asks, and is rewarded with a glare.

"I'm sure I don't want to see him, ever again. But we are going to go, because I need to extinguish your interest in this whole supernatural mumbo-jumbo."

"And you think that's going to help?"

"I am counting on the intelligence and the ability to reason you supposedly possess."

"That's uncalled for."

"Honey, I love you, and I acknowledge you've been through a lot, so I'm indulging you. Please accept the fact that you are not the first case of grief I had to deal with."

"As if you aren't grieving."

"I am. But I like to think I'm more sane about it."

"Thanks a lot."

"That's what a wife is for." Deborah grins and kisses him, long and deep, and Jacob is almost ready to forgive her for the insinuations regarding his mental health. "I'm going to arrange for some babysitting and we can go tomorrow."

"Won't your parents mind?"

"I don't think so. They love having Rachel over."

The drive is boring. Even the occasional insult Deborah whips up for the occasion falls flat. "Look, I try, okay?" Jacob says eventually. "I wish the guy was waiting there with a straight jacket and psychiatric help, or proof that there were hallucinogens in the wine."

"Except?"

"Except I tend to be able to tell apart dreams and reality," Jacob says. He doesn't say anything more and Deborah refrains from commenting. The rest of the drive they argue about the state of TV these days.

They cross the final state line around four p.m. on Saturday. From there it's a couple more hours until they reach the house Mr Wandell lives in. As they pull in front of the house, they are confronted with a police car and an ambulance. A police officer directs them to a parking spot a little way from the house and bends next to Jacob's window.

"Sir, ma'am. Are you friends of Mr Wandell?"

"Acquaintances," Jacob says, staring wide-eyed at the gurney wheeled out of the house. The shape of the sheet covering it leaves little to the imagination. "We had an appointment," he adds, his voice oddly high.

"I'm sorry to inform you Mr Wandell passed away," the officer says. "If you would be so kind as to step out of the car and into the house? This won't take long."

Jacob casts a glance at Deborah and obediently opens the door. They follow the officer into the building. The door is crisscrossed with police tape and Jacob feels his breath catch. What has happened here?

"Into the kitchen, please," the officer says. "Artie, put the kettle on, will you?" Another police officer nods. "Tea or coffee?"

"Coffee," Jacob and Deborah say simultaneously.

"I'm sorry to bother you, but there's not many people around here who claim they know Mr Wandell. He was something of a loner. You aren't from around here?"

"No, we live in Illinois."

"Your names?"

"Deborah and Jacob Lake."

"From Illinois? That's a hell of a distance," the officer observes. Jacob swallows nervously. There's a smell in the house that makes him feel like throwing up and his hand is throbbing again.

"He's a friend of our parish priest," he says.

"How long have you known Steve Wandell?"

"Two months," Deborah answers. She accepts a steaming cup from Artie with a nod.

"Would you say you knew him well?"

"No. We only met once."

"Obviously you knew him well enough to drive all the way from Illinois."

"I'm a psychologist," Deborah says. "Father Matthews has asked that I speak with Mr Wandell, as a personal favor." She is looking the police officer in the eye with a calm, indifferent expression. "Since it is quite a drive, I asked my husband to accompany me."

"And for that you came down here?"

"Father Matthews was a good friend of Mr Wandell. He felt talking to someone trustworthy would help."

"Forgive the questions, but you understand it seems excessive, traveling over a thousand miles…"

"Mr Wandell didn't have many friends."

"True, apparently." The officer takes his hat off and runs a hand through his thick hair. "Would you peg him as suicidal?" he asks Deborah.

"No. He was paranoid, but not suicidal." Deborah's brows furrow. "I'm actually amazed he killed himself, he seemed very far from it when I saw him."

The officer gives her a long look. "Perhaps it might help your professional pride when I say he definitely didn't kill himself," he says. Deborah blinks and Jacob just feels his stomach twist. "There is evidence of a struggle in the house, knife marks on the furniture… Mr Wandell was murdered."

"Murdered?" Deborah opens her eyes wide. "He was murdered?"

"I'm afraid so." He gives the two of them another long look, taking in the green hue of Jacob's face and the disbelief evident on Deborah's. "I'm sorry, but I have to ask. Where were you around one p.m. on Wednesday?"

"At work," Jacob replies. He is clutching the counter with his good hand. "I was at the office in Pontiac, Deborah was in the clinic."

"There's any number of people who'd confirm it," Deborah adds.

The officer nods and shoots a look at his partner. Jacob only needs to half-turn to confirm Artie was jotting down the details. "I understand. Thank you for your time."

Jacob feels numb when they walk down the steps and get back into the car. "How is it possible?" he asks. "Murdered?" Then another thought arrives in his head. "And what on earth were you telling him?"

Deborah gives him a long look. "What did you expect me to say, out my husband as a nutjob, seeking the professional help of other nutjobs?"

"But you lied to them!"

"I didn't say one thing that wasn't true," she says, and Jacob is forced to admit that it is the truth. Not that it helps, any. The notion that Deb can lay down the truth in such a way that completely bypasses the actual real truth is, to him, unconceivable and very disturbing.

"I just…" Jacob starts but Deborah doesn't let him finish. She's driven sedately through the town, but now they've reached the main road she steps on it – in no time at all West is a meager dot in the rear view mirror.

"You were right," she says.

"What?"

"Something weird is going on here, and I want to know what."

Jacob watches her dumbly. Two months and she chooses now of all times to arrive at this conclusion? Now, when he'd be much happier forgetting he ever suggested it? "Why?"

"He was murdered in his own house. You saw the security he has there, there're cameras all around the place, I doubt a squirrel could wander in without him knowing about it. Then there is his paranoia. Then there is the fact that he is- was a strong man, who knew his guns. And the officer said he was killed with a knife."

Jacob tries to recall a mention of that, but he was busy trying not to puke, so any number of details might have escaped his attention. "You think he was killed by one of the… things?" Jacob asks cautiously.

"No. I just know it's very, very unlikely that we get an urgent call from him and he ends up murdered the next day. He didn't seem like the sort of man who'd call to say he's got nothing."

"Yeah, but Deb, he might have just found this was a case of arson." From the look Deborah throws him Jacob ascertains he's being a moron again.

"I know your mental acuity is not at its best right now, but seriously, you're the one who's been hammering the supernatural into my head the past few months and suddenly you're the skeptic?"

"So suddenly you are the believer?"

"Not by choice," Deborah says, "But let's be rational for a moment. There was a formal investigation of the fire, and aside from the minor oddities everything seemed normal. No one saw anything. There was no motive. We have no enemies, no one who wishes us ill. We have no money and no greedy relatives, at least that I know of. Fact is, whatever happened to us was one hundred percent random. Which- which I hate, but I can accept that it was an accident. But now a guy we asked to look into the whole thing ends up murdered, and in my experience that kind of random just doesn't happen."

"There are coincidences."

"I'll grant you that. Arson, however, and murder is very rarely incidental." Deborah pauses and opens her mouth, as if something just occurred to her. "He didn't go to Pontiac," she says. "He wouldn't have bothered calling then. He was working here."

"There's only so much he could find out from here," Jacob realizes and Deborah nods. "Which means he must have been mainly searching through cases that might have been similar, first."

"I wish we could get his notes. At least to know how broad his search was and how many serial killers we have on our hands now."

"So what now?"

"Now we get home."

They are halfway through Oklahoma when Jacob tells Deborah, forcibly, to pull over at the nearest motel. They didn't sleep the previous night and she's been driving all the way, which, now that he looks back at it, was a stupid idea right there. He checks them in and Deborah, despite her hurry to return to their baby girl, falls into bed the minute the door closes behind them. Jacob calls Deborah's parents first, to tell Rachel goodnight and that they miss her.

Then he tells Danielle to make sure she locks the door properly and could Rachel please sleep in their room, just in case? If she is puzzled by the request, she doesn't let it know. She nods, verbally, and Jacob goes to sleep with a measure of comfort. He wraps himself around Deborah and falls asleep before the clock strikes nine p.m.

They wake early on Sunday and then have to wake the clerk to check out. The long drive goes by fast. They collect Rachel and drive straight to the church. They are only minutes late for the Sunday evening mass. Rachel is gurgling happily as they carry her into the church and she keeps gurgling throughout the mass.

Monday morning they are both at work, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Jacob approves three minor claims and rejects the fourth, which is an obvious ploy to get the money from crashing a car that was so badly damaged already it probably required pushing to end up against the tree. Why do people bother, he can't help but wonder, when the ruse is so obvious a child could smell it. He goes down to the crash site, because he is a nice man and he gives people the benefit of the doubt, but the minute he spots the youth whose car was smashed he just knows the claim won't ever see the light of day again. The boy looks like he has trouble telling apart his left and his right, and the fumes raising from his clothes further obscure his judgment. Jacob files all four cases and calls it a day.

By unspoken agreement he meets Deborah by St. Mary's. Father Matthews shouldn't be too busy at this time of the day and Mrs Mone is warned they will be a little late picking up Rachel.

"Shall we?" he asks.

"I'm afraid of what he'll tell us," Deborah admits.

"So am I." Considering that what he potentially could tell them ranged from "you failed to achieve an environment safe enough for your child" to "it was happenstance, there's no predicting those things", they had a right to be worried. They walk into the quiet church, shoulder to shoulder, searching for Father Matthews.

The vestibule is cold and Jacob cannot help but shudder. He reaches out to dip his fingers in the urn containing the holy water and crosses himself. The figure of Christ is watching him from the stone cross, though if it's with compassion or curiosity Jacob can't quite tell.

"Jacob, Deborah. What a surprise to see you here," the priest says, coming towards them with his arms open in greeting. "Alone, I mean. Aside from the Holy Mass."

"Father, did you hear about Steve Wandell?" Deborah asks.

The old man just looks puzzled.

"He's dead. The police say he's been murdered."

Father Matthews stares at them for a second than sits down, heavily, on the worn wooden pew, when it's obvious they are not joking. "May the Lord have mercy on his soul," he whispers. "Steve was a good man," he says. "A good man."

"He was paranoid, Father," Deborah says and the priest shoots her a scathing look.

"Child, the things Steve has seen, the things he's battled, he has every right in the world to be paranoid."

Deborah nods, chastised. "I'm sorry," she says. "I have trouble dealing with this."

"You don't have to be sorry," Father Matthews says. "I can imagine how you must feel. I have been where you are now: confronted with things I was certain didn't exist. It can be hard to accept."

"We think he found something," Jacob interjects. "He called us right before he died, he said he needed to talk to us, as soon as possible."

The priest stands up. "Let me just close up here, we can discuss this over tea."

The tea is hot and fragrant and, once more in Jacob's twenty-eight years, the most real thing he experiences over a stretch of time. Father Matthews brings out several books, a few of them so old they are written on parchment instead of paper. They are books on ghosts and spirits, werewolves, Adjules, chupacabras ("Chupacabra?" Jacob can't help but ask. "Apparently aside from the goat-sucking they are quite benign," Father Matthews replies), Igopogos, and more, most of which he's never heard of. Some, he can swear he knows from cartoons he watched with his son, back when Tim was taming the TV.

And now apparently they are all real.

"Is Bigfoot real?" he asks, turning a page to a gruesome depiction of a… Wendigo, which is feasting on a strung-up man. He can't turn this one fast enough, and even so the details haunt him ten pages later.

"Not to my knowledge," Father Matthews says.

"Can't see why, everything else apparently is," Deborah mutters. She is buried in a text regarding vengeful spirits, their characteristics and reasons for their attacks. "According to this a spirit can be dormant for any length of time, can be woken up by any insignificant event and then kill anyone, on a whim." She puts the book down and stares intently. "So how do we know why it would attack us?"

"I am no hunter, child," Father Matthews says with a small smile. "I know a little because I tried to assist Steve with Mrs Worthing, and then took to reading."

"Hunter?" Jacob asks curiously.

"Hunters deal with researching and neutralizing supernatural threats. It's a very apt term, considering the line of work."

"Is there some way to stop these things?"

"From what I understand they cannot cross salt lines."

"Salt lines?" Deborah blinks. "What's that supposed to be?"

"Exactly what it sounds like. A line formed with rock salt."

"Right. Condiments. What's next?"

"Silver, there's any number of herbs the dead find repulsive. Religious symbols."

"We have crucifixes in the house," Jacob says, not looking up. "In Rachel's bedroom, too."

Father Matthews looks at him and reaches out to pat his hand. "Son, it is not that simple." He picks up one of the books and opens it halfway through. There's a pentacle on the right-hand side, surrounded by an array of symbols and letterings in, from what Jacob can see, Latin, Aramaic and Greek. "This is a devil's trap," the priest says. "It is said a demon cannot exit, or enter, one."

"A pentagram? Isn't that a sign of devil worship?" Deborah asks, picking the book up.

"No, it's not. Pentacles have had many meanings, many of those connected to Christianity. Religious symbols are fluid in their meaning and often forgotten, as are legends," Father Matthews says. "Many of the monsters you will find in these books are descended from old tales and legends."

"How do we find out what happened to us?" Deborah asks.

Father Matthews is silent and for the first time Jacob can see the worry lines on his wizened face. "I'm not a hunter, child. I have done my reading, but these things are so difficult to accept. I'm a Catholic priest; I'm supposed to believe that the grace of God and prayer can protect us all from evil, when obviously it cannot. And now you tell me Steve's dead, because of one of these things."

"I'm sorry, Father," Jacob says. His throat is constricting painfully. If Mr Wandell is indeed dead because of these things, then they have brought him to their attention.

"You mustn't blame yourself," Father Matthews says, as if reading his mind. "Steve was a hunter, and as much good as he did, the truth is it is a thankless job that shortens the lives of good people."

The look on Deborah's face is scary, to Jacob. "You won't turn into a crusader, will you?" he asks when they are alone and walking to pick up Rachel from Mrs Mone. He is carrying a number of books Father Matthews lend to them. He wishes he could drop them somewhere, because they are making him uncomfortable. It's like they suck the body heat right out, filling him with an unpleasant buzz from the inside.

"I'm seriously considering it."

"You can't be serious."

"If these things are real, then don't you think something should be done about it?"

"But you don't have to be the one to do it."

"Perhaps not." But Deborah's face is thoughtful and scheming, even as she rings the doorbell to the Mones' house. "Good evening, Mrs Mone," she tells the old lady, though she is staring at her hairdo. Jacob can't help but do the same. "How was Rachel today?"

"She's a sweetheart, dear, as usual. And she grows so fast."

"Thanks for looking after her," Deborah says and follows Mrs Mone into the house. "Will you wait?" she asks Jacob. "I won't be long."

"Sure," he says and leans against the curb. Five minutes later Deborah is back with Rachel safely wrapped in layers and layers of coats and a blanket. She looks like a large pillow, with nothing but her blue eyes and the tip of her nose indicating there is a living creature inside. Jacob smiled and touches the tip of her nose. "Hi Rachel. Did you have a good day?"

She gurgles and giggles and Jacob can't help but smile wider. He dumps the books into Deborah's arms and lifts Rachel high in the air. His hand protests, but it's no worse than a twinge, which he can easily ignore. The girl grins and looks down at him with a sudden bout of seriousness. "Da!" she says, grinning brightly as soon as the syllable leaves her mouth.

Jacob stops in his tracks. "Did she just--" he turns to Deborah, who is watching Rachel with equal amazement on her face.

"Ma!" Rachel says, her left hand waving as wildly as the coat would allow.

"It is high time she started talking," Deborah says. "I wonder why Mrs Mone never said anything."

"Maybe Rachel doesn't talk to her," Jacob says. Rachel giggles against his shoulder. "This is the first time I've heard her speak."

"Me too. It's kind of late, though."

"She's only one year old."

"She's had her birthday a while ago."

"Two weeks, Deb. And before that she's had months of hearing nothing but Anne reading to her about how metacarpal bones are covered with cartilage."

"They aren't."

"What?"

"Metacarpal bones are not covered with cartilage."

"Whatever. It might have been the parathyroid gland. It doesn't matter. The point it, Rachel had months of nothing but medicinal readings, thanks to your sister."

"So now it's all Anne's fault?" Deborah asks and though her tone is haughty the smirk betrays her good humor.

No, it isn't. "Yes it is," Jacob says using whatever extra height he has to stare down at Deborah. It isn't much. Deborah is a tall woman.

"If your hand wasn't broken, I would be forced to take offence on behalf of my sister," Deborah says.

They laugh the rest of the way home.

**March 2007**

Early in March Rachel masters "mama" and "dada". Jacob is insanely proud, even though as Deborah said it was a little late. Other than that Rachel is developing beautifully and the pediatrician can find no fault in her growth. Jacob is proud to announce this fact to Deborah as he closes the door to the house. He spends some time undoing the clasps and flies Rachel's winter clothing requires to preserve warmth properly. March is cold this year and he wouldn't want to hamper the tentative happiness with Rachel catching a cold. Finally the last layer, one of Deborah's woolen creations, is off and Rachel slides off the couch to stand on her chubby legs. She looks around and shudders, then lifts her arms into the air and Jacob grins down at her.

"What, up again? Aren't you a spoilt little brat," he says but picks her up nonetheless. "Deb," he calls out loudly. He's hungry and he knows Rachel is too. Then it occurs to him there is too much silence in the house. Deborah has gotten into the habit of leaving a radio on when she worked. Nothing is playing now. "Deb?" he asks, uncertain, holding Rachel tighter against his chest.

He walks into the kitchen, because if Deborah had to leave suddenly, that's where the message would be. Which is silly, because why would she leave a message, if she was only gone a minute? And why wouldn't she call him if she were gone for a longer period of time?

But Deborah is in the kitchen, sitting in a chair against the wall. Her wrists are bound and there's tape on her mouth and Jacob takes an involuntary step back. The scream dies in his throat when his back encounters a sharp object whose tip travels from the initial point of contact to the middle of his spine, while a hand wraps itself around his mouth. He can feel the tip of the knife as if it were red hot. His breathing speeds up and he is certain he will start hyperventilating in no time and all.

"Now, I don't want to kill you unless I really must," said a voice into the back of Jacob's neck, "But I'm not feeling charitable. So don't scream. Nod."

Jacob nods, frantically. The hand is removed and he is across the kitchen in a flash, putting himself between Deborah and the stranger. He is hoping he won't faint, if it comes down to fighting. "What do you want?" he asks, putting Rachel on the ground and pushing her to hold on to Deborah.

"Untie your wife," the man says. He exchanges the knife for a gun and motions with it. "I apologize for the inconvenience, ma'am," he says to Deborah.

"You call this an inconvenience?" Deborah spits when Jacob tears the tape from her mouth, gently as he can.

"For me, yes. Please refrain from screaming," he adds when Deborah takes a deeper breath.

Jacob fights with the knots on Deborah's wrists and ankles, running his fingers down her body to make sure she's okay. Nothing obvious is wrong and he allows himself a quiet "Thank God," as he unravels the last of the bindings.

"What do you want?" Deborah asks as soon as she's free.

"I want to know what you did to Steve Wandell," the man says, and his voice is no longer filled with quiet amusement. It's hard and angry and for the first time Jacob understands why they are called hunters.

"We didn't do anything," Jacob says, cradling Rachel to his chest.

"You were the last people to talk to him."

"It doesn't mean anything!"

"No? So what does this mean?" he pushes a piece of paper across the table and sits down, gun still at the ready. Jacob unfolds the note and is surprised to find his own name, written in Mr Wandell's scruffy handwriting. Name and address. He can feel Deborah against his back so he knows she's reading alongside him and he knows she is angry.

"Shit," she swears, "I knew it was a mistake."

"What was?" the stranger asks.

"None of your damn business," Deborah says and shushes Rachel who has started to cry softly.

"Ma'am, I am the one holding the gun. Whether or not it's my business, it's my call."

"If you so much think about firing that in here, with my daughter present, so help me I will kill you."

The man smiles, unexpectedly. "Usually people are a little more afraid of a man with a gun. Just answer me this – did you or did you not kill Steve."

"Of course not! Do we look like murderers?"

"I don't know. Are you?" he bends and pulls up a flask from somewhere underneath the table. He pushes the flask in their direction. "Take a good swing," he tells them. "So that I see."

"Pervert," Deborah mutters, but reaches for the flask. "What's in it?"

"Holy water," the man replies, and though Deborah gives him a look that manages to include disbelief, fear and fury, he doesn't blink, but motions for her to get on with it.

Jacob, however, starts at the mention of holy water. "Are you a hunter?" he asks, which earns him an incredulous look from both Deborah and the stranger.

"Do I look like a police officer to you? I would have thought it obvious."

"Thanks." Deborah passes the flask to Jacob, who takes a sip. It tastes like water.

"Give some to the child, too."

"Oh for Heaven's sake, you don't think she'll try and claw your eyes out, do you? She's one year old!"

"I hold the gun, ma'am," the hunter replies. "Give the holy water to the child, too."

Jacob does so, unwilling to anger the man who broke into his house and attacked his family. Rachel looks at him tearfully but obediently swallows a sip from the flask. Some of the water dribbles down her chin and Jacob wipes it off with his sleeve. He corks the flask and throws it across the table. "That all?"

"We're just getting started," the hunter grins, and Jacob feels trapped. There is a trace of panic, lacing itself through his emotions, coloring every thought. How could he not think about this before? What on earth had he allowed to happen to his family, by drawing their attention? "Now, I need to know who you are."

"Jacob and Deborah Lake," Deborah tells him. She too is scared, perhaps even more than Jacob, but she is also angry and the anger is seeping through every pore of her body. She is like an angry cat, hackles raised, ready to pounce on the predator threatening him and their baby. Or perhaps he should be thinking their baby and him, he's not sure where Deborah's priorities lie at the moment.

"I know that. I mean what are you. Not demons, apparently, so what. Witches? Necromancers? Wiccans? Pagan worshippers?"

"We're Catholic," Jacob says. He would have imagined the crucifix above the door would have given the man a clue. "Roman Catholic. Do we look like witches?"

"How did you meet Steve?"

"We got his address from our parish priest."

"That so? What for?"

"That's none of your business," Deborah says and the hunter immediately leans forward, the amusement and polite interest gone, supplanted by something much more sinister.

"Why did you contact Steve?" he asks again, tapping his finger against the gun's trigger.

"Our house burned down," Jacob says, before he can think about it. "We thought it might be something … odd."

"Your house burns down and you think it's odd? What are you, some kind of a philosopher?"

"Whatever it is you want, get it and get out," Deborah snaps.

"I'd like a word with this Father Matthews," the hunter says, his face unreadable.

"Go ahead, he's at the parish, most likely."

"Please call him now," he says and smiles, and there is so little actual please in the sentence, the word jars and breaks and downright hurts. Jacob feels the dissonance in his newly healed hand and for a second he is sure the fractures will re-break from the strain. Deborah glares and fumes, but walks to the phone and, after a moment's hesitation, picks up the phone book. Her fingers don't shake when she punches the number in, with a lot more force than necessary, and Jacob doesn't know whether to admire her for the bravado or be wary. His own hands are shaking so bad he can hardly hold Rachel steady, but Deborah is collected and in control.

"Father Matthews? Good evening. I've got someone who needs to speak with you," she says into the receiver and then steps back, offering the phone to the hunter.

"Hello. Ah, that's unimportant at the moment. What I'd like to know is how you, Father, know Steve Wandell." A moment of silence. "Is that so? Ah, very well. Sorry to bother you at this hour. Goodnight." He puts the receiver down and, very pointedly, tucks the gun into the back of his pants. "Father Matthews confirms your version of events," he says.

"Brilliant. Now what?" Deborah asks and the guy raises a brow in a silent question. He's in his fifties, perhaps, and he is powerfully built. Jacob is willing to bet the man could snap him like a twig. He could have been handsome at some point, but now his face is weathered and marred by a long scar, running from his right brow down the cheek and to the chin.

"Now? We still need to talk. My name is William Thackery," he says extending his hand. "Call me Will."

There is a long moment during which Deborah just looks at him, then at Jacob, than cautiously takes the man's hand. "I will hurt you," she says, glaring, rending the gesture null.

"I'm trying to be polite here."

"You were threatening my child, and my husband. And you tied me up in my own goddamn kitchen."

"Deborah," Jacob manages.

"Are you going to shoot me?" Deborah challenges and Jacob thinks he might well duck under the table, except he cannot move. It's as if all his muscles suddenly stopped working, as if he has no longer the capacity for movement. All he can do is stare between the hunter and Deborah, praying that this is all some cosmic misunderstanding and nothing wrong comes out of it.

"I'm not. Not yet."

"Go to Hell," Deborah suggests.

"My friend was murdered, Mrs Lake, and you were the last people he contacted. You can't fault me for being cautious."

"There is such a thing as police."

"Ah, no offence, but they wouldn't factor in the line of work Steve was in."

"You mean the ghosts," Deborah says, and the layers of sarcasm in her voice are so thick it's a wonder they don't peel as she forms the words.

"That's exactly what I mean," William says. "How about you make us some tea and we talk some more?"

"How about you leave the house?"

"Mrs Lake, Steve contacted you, he left behind a message with your name on it. Which means that either he was hunting you, or he was trying to help you. Since I doubt he would bother making contact if a hunt was on his mind, I have to assume you are in danger."

"And you act on this by pointing the gun at us?"

"You seems like a nice enough woman, Mrs Lake, so I won't burden you with the whys. Suffice to say, one time I didn't and I walked away with this pretty scar on my face."

Jacob holds up his hand. "I don't wanna hear it."

"I didn't think you would."

"Why are you still here?" Deborah asked. "We didn't kill Mr Wandell."

"I thought I said already, his research suggests there is something after you."

"That's not a concern of yours."

"Funny fact about the hunting business – we take fighting evil personally. So like it or not, I am gonna find out what Steve found."

"That still doesn't tell us what you're doing here, with a gun."

"Ma'am, I get your disbelief. But we try and help people, at great personal risk. We are entitled, I feel, to a little paranoia."

Deborah is not convinced and Jacob, though he gets what the man is saying, cannot forget the gun that was trained on them both, cannot forget Deborah tied up and helpless in their own home. Then again, why didn't he expect this? Their home has never been the safe place he wanted it to be. The wallpapered walls didn't stop harm from coming to Timmy, and now to Deborah, though of course Deborah escaped without harm.

"Get out of my house," Deborah says again and the man raises his hands in mock surrender.

"Sure, if that makes you feel better. I have to ask that you don't call the police."

"Because we have no reason to call the police."

"I'm just asking, ma'am. I can deal with it, but it won't help." He pats his belt to make sure he has his gun and turns to leave. "I have no intention of bringing harm to you, not unless it turns out you deserve it," he says. "I'm staying at the motel downtown."

"Get out!"

When the door closes, Deborah leans against the table, spent. "This is too much," she says shaking her head. Jacob isn't sure what he can say to make it better. He settles for placing his hand on Deborah's back and standing upright.

They don't call the police in the end, though whether this is his choice or Deborah's, Jacob doesn't know.

William Thackery comes by the next afternoon, Father Matthews in tow. Nevertheless, Deborah shuts the door in their faces. They are not deterred. They keep knocking until she storms back and throws it open with more force than necessary. "What the hell do you want?" she hisses through clenched teeth.

"Deborah, please. William can help you," Father Matthews says.

"How the hell do you know," she challenges. "You don't know him."

"That's true. I don't. I knew Steve, however."

"And we're back to mythical Steve. You realize of course that man was paranoid and plain crazy?"

"It's not paranoia if they're really out to get you," William remarks kindly and Deborah bristles. "Mrs Lake, Steve had reasons to be cautious."

"Sure, with friends like you who needs enemies?" Deborah asks and reluctantly steps away from the door, admitting both men in. "What do you want?"

Jacob watches all of this from the corridor, standing between Rachel and their guests. William politely nods in his direction and Jacob suppresses the twinge of nervousness. He doesn't see the gun, but it doesn't mean it's not there and there is something in the way William caries himself that suggests weapons anyway. It makes Jacob nervous, but of course the fact that Deborah has a gun within her reach as well makes him nervous too. When was it that home stopped being safe and started making him unsettled?

"We need information," William says curtly. "Anything you can tell me."

"What kind of anything?" Deborah asks and she is too weary to protest, Jacob can tell from her tone.

"Can we sit?" Father Matthews asks. "I'm an old man, child."

"Yeah. Come in." She shoots Jacob a glance and he somehow understands – he picks up Rachel and carries her to the playpen.

Deborah makes tea and serves it with some cookies on the side. Jacob is done with half of them before they even start talking properly.

"So what is it you want?" Deborah asks once more. She is glaring at William through half-lidded eyes, but he seems immune, as he is looking at her quite calmly.

"Steve kept his notes on his hard drive, and his computer was destroyed when he was murdered," William says. "So I don't have anything to go on."

"What do you want to know?"

"It started with the fire, I take it," he says and Jacob starts.

"You know about that?"

"I found a single sheet of notes. That's all. It mentioned your name, a fire and that's all."

Jacob hides his face in hands and forces his heart to settle. "Shit," he says to himself. Then, word-by-word, he recalls the night of June 29th. He is beginning to regret ever having told that story to Father Matthews. Denial would have been healthier than this, right?

"… and then I heard Deborah and we just left the house," he finishes. He doesn't much care he's been talking to his knees the whole time. At least they won't mock him, in the end.

"I'm sorry for your loss," William says, and he sounds sorry, though the words are trite. Better yet, there is not an ounce of disbelief or scorn in his voice, and that alone helps Jacob raise his head. "Was there anything else going on around that time?"

"What do you mean?"

"Strange noises, not on that night but earlier. Maybe Tim was scared of something?"

"No," Deborah replies. "He had the occasional bad dream, but it was the usual kind. Clowns chasing him, being alone. That sort of thing."

"I see. What about the house, any noises, anything moving in the middle of the night?"

"No. Why would anything be moving in the middle of the night?" Deborah says.

"The lights flickered in the bathroom," Jacob says. "That's all."

"And the flickering, that happened often?"

"No. It only happened once, right before I went to the nursery."

"Ah."

"Ah, the hell what?" Deborah asks. Jacob usually likes the peeved tone, because she uses it so rarely. She usually has all the perfectly logical answers at hand.

"Electrical equipment often reacts to the paranormal," William explains.

"Oh, so suddenly this is cold hard proof we're dealing with the paranormal."

"No, but it suggests it might be."

"As opposed to the bottle of wine and being half asleep, suggesting Jacob was sleep walking?"

"He said he heard you yelling, Mrs Lake. What did you see?" William asks, helping himself to more tea.

Deborah furrows her brows for a moment and falters. Jacob realizes with a start he has never asked her this. "I woke up," she says, her brow furrowed. "I heard Jacob screaming. The bedroom door was open so I walked into the corridor and I saw- I saw fire." She shakes her head and Jacob reaches out to put his arm around her shoulders. "There was fire and Jacob was standing, in front of the crib, staring at the ceiling and screaming."

"You didn't go into the room?"

"It was on fire," Deborah looks up to glare. How she can do it through her hair, Jacob has no idea. "The room was on fire and he was just standing in the middle of it, staring at the ceiling and screaming."

"I see," William just said. "Do you know the history of the house?"

"So far as I know, no one ever died in it. I don't think anyone so much as got seriously ill in there. We got it from an elderly couple who were moving down to Miami, or thereabouts. They were in their fifties and seemed to be in perfect health."

"What about you two?" William asks.

"Do we look like axe-murders to you? I might have beat up a nerd in high school, but that nerd was him, so it's okay," Deborah says and for the first time that story doesn't bring a flush to Jacob's cheeks.

"You didn't beat me up," he says, just as William and Father Matthews look at the two of them curiously. "You hit him?" they ask simultaneously, and Jacob flushes red.

"I opened a locker in his face. It was an accident. He got a bloody nose, but he was fine." He was better than fine, Jacob thinks but doesn't say, because he got a date out of it. So what if it was in the nurse's office. They got their act together, eventually.

"That's certainly unorthodox," Father Matthews says, but he is smiling as he says it.

"Yeah. I didn't know then he was going to grow up into a lunatic."

"I'm not a lunatic," Jacob protests.

"Yeah, I know." Deborah is silent for a moment then she looks up again. "What else?" she asks looking at William.

"I honestly have no idea," he admits, but Jacob can tell he's lying by the way Deborah's eyes narrow and she calls him on it. "I don't," he repeats. "I'm going to have to do more research on my own."

"So what, now we're lying?"

"No, but you might not be looking in the right places."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"No offence to you, Mrs Lake, but humans have a tendency to block out memories they find too difficult to comprehend. And anyway, whatever might be important here, might not have been important to you."

"That made very little sense."

"It might start making more, in time." He places the cup on the coffee table and gets up. "Thank you for your time. I will let you know when I find anything."

"Please do," Deborah mutters under her breath.

"Should anything happen, Father Matthews has my cell number. Good day," he says, nodding to Jacob, Deborah and the priest.

There is a moment of silence, during which Deborah bites her lip and tries very hard to count down from an obscenely high number. "He's batshit insane," she explodes once the front door closes behind the hunter's back.

"He might be, yes. But he won't hurt you, child. Hunters are a peculiar bunch, but they are good people, Deborah."

"They are crazy."

"Aren't we all?" Father Matthews grunts as he gets to his feet. "God be with you," he says on his way out.

"And with you too," Jacob manages to the priest's back.

"As if one lunatic wasn't bad enough," Deborah sighs once they are alone again.

"Lunatic?"

"Please. That man is far from sane."

"He seems decent enough," Jacob says.

"Why is it so important to you?" Deborah asks. "I get the need not to be crazy, but please draw a line somewhere."

"Where do you want me to draw the line?" Jacob asks, a little more anger than he intends seeping into the words. "I'm just as scared as you are."

"Look, I just… worry."

"I know. And I'm sorry."

What can he say? He wants to understand this, whatever this is, and if trusting this hunter is the way to do it, then… You are putting your family at risk, the rational part of his mind points out. There must be a risk, considering one of them was already dead, another part suggests, and Jacob realizes, to his own horror, that his curiosity is not going to let him rest easy, not with this kind of mystery hanging over his head. "We'll be careful," he adds lamely and he knows he deserves the snort of indignation.

"Careful like perhaps not letting him into the house?" Deborah asks, her voice full of irony. Jacob finds no words to make her feel better. He shares some of her reservations, sure. This is a stranger, one who's already broken into their home, and frankly that alone should be scaring him off. Not that it doesn't scare him; he'd be stupid if it didn't. There is something more than the fright, however, there is the hint of answers this man might have, something Jacob was looking forward to for a while now. So yes, he is crazy, and in all likelihood he will be hearing "Didn't I tell you so?" from Deborah in the near future. He tries not to let the thought get to him right now.

Luckily for Deborah and his mental state they don't see William again for nearly two months and even then it's only a few minutes of their time on a warm May afternoon.

William is pacing in their living room when Jacob gets home that day. He stops when Jacob enters and nods at him, then resumes pacing.

"Something has happened," Deborah says. "I'm not sure what. There was something about Hell's gates; I didn't quite get it. He mentioned an apocalypse too, but since it isn't raining brimstone, I'm not too worried."

"Apocalypse?" Jacob hisses and William gestures at them.

"The Winchesters opened the gates to Hell," he says without preamble.

"Okay," Jacob tries to make sense of this. "Who did what, again?"

"The Winchesters. A couple of hunters, doesn't matter. They opened the doorway to Hell, and an army of demons got out."

"Demons?" Jacob takes a moment to just stare at the man, because while he understands the concept of ghosts and is reasonably happy to believe in their existence, demons walking the world are not something he is content with. Which is altogether bizarre, considering what a good Catholic boy he is, believing in Heaven and Hell, angels and demons.

"This is very bad news," William says and Jacob resists the urge to roll his eyes. Well obviously, or else he wouldn't be pacing like he does. "Demons can wreck havoc like you couldn't even imagine. And there's word that hundreds of them are loose in the world."

"What does that mean?" Deborah asks.

"I need to go," William says.

"Go where?"

"There're a couple places I need to check up on, see if there's anything that needs doing immediately."

"It could be a false alarm," Deborah says staring into her cup. "No offence, but this whole hunting ghosts thing might make a person the tiny bit paranoid. I wouldn't be surprised if someone declared an apocalypse every other year," she adds under her breath.

"We don't scare easily," William says and his face is grim. "I'll be back," he promises.

**TBC**


	6. Chapter 6

**June 2007**

William is tidy and much less scruffy looking when he appears on their doorstep with a thick file in his hand a little less than two months after his very grim exit. "Good morning," he tells Jacob, nodding his head. "May I come in?"

"Well, isn't this a pleasant change," Deborah says, her arms crossed on her chest. "What happened to breaking and entering, did they pass a law against it when I wasn't paying attention?"

"Very funny, Mrs Lake," the hunter says as he walks into the living room. He sets down the duffle bag and starts spreading the contents of the file on the table. "Could I bother you for some tea, perhaps?"

"Sure." When Deborah gets back with cups and pots, William has most of the table occupied by charts and articles. "So what brings you to our humble abode?"

"Nothing you will like, I fear," William says. "I researched the town, and the house," he starts, gesturing to the selection of papers on the table. "Over a hundred people have died in mysterious circumstances since it was founded."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning, there appear to be hundreds of potential ghosts. Steve McAdams, fell out of the window in the local school building. Five people followed in his footsteps. Amy Gilespie was found dead before a mirror in her apartment, I won't bore you with details."

"I will ask again, what does it mean?"

"A little patience, Mrs Lake," William says, and the scar on his face curves to allow for a wide smile. "Allow me to sell the story."

"Alright, go on."

"Now, I did a cursory sweep for most the cases, because you never know. Since not one looked even remotely similar to what you witnessed, I didn't expect much to turn up." nevertheless, the amount of clippings and printouts William is displaying on the table is frightening.

"Did it?" Jacob asks picking up a copy. Someone has been killed in a freak accident, by a falling car. He furrows his brows. He remembers that, vaguely, from when he was a teen.

"No, and you might be relieved to note that I found nothing solid to base a case on."

"That's supposed to relieve us?" Deborah asks.

"It means you don't live in a haunted town. I would find that comforting."

"When you put it that way… So, there are no ghosts in Pontiac?"

"None malicious ones, at least. It is virtually impossible to track down ghosts without a deadly intent, as they tend not to leave a trail."

"What does that mean?" Jacob asks.

"It means, Mr Lake, that usually ghosts are only noticeable when people go missing, or are found dead for no good reason."

"There's a good reason to be found dead?"

"I meant that as in inexplicable. Usually there is a cause, a crime scene, something that makes sense, on psychological grounds."

"And if there's none, it means there is no ghost to blame?"

"Usually no."

"So, what is it that brings you here, exactly?"

"The house was a little more problematic," William says. "The previous occupants had curious hobbies, ones that could leave a mark on the place. This matters, because if a place is tainted somehow, the ghosts and other creatures are drawn to it."

"By curious hobbies you mean what?"

"In 1976, Mrs Frommich won the local lottery. In 1980 Mr Frommich won a car. In 1983, Emmett Frommich won a sports scholarship to the University of Chicago, after the quarterback broke his leg in three places on a skiing trip."

"What does that prove? People get lucky sometimes."

"Sometimes, yes. Not always. I haven't been able to find a single instance of bad luck the Frommiches had during the time they lived here."

"Some people are just lucky," Deborah says sourly. "You cannot suspect them for having too much good luck."

"In my line of work too lucky is never a good thing."

"No offence then, but your line of work sucks."

"Never said it didn't." William shuffles through the paper and comes up with a list. "This is a list of every case of surprisingly good fortune the Frommiches enjoyed over the years. You may look through it at your leisure. I'm not saying that it is complete, of course, this is just what I managed to pull from the local papers and such."

Jacob picks up the paper and gives it a cursory read. "This doesn't seem too excessive," he says. It isn't. All the instances of luck William presented are run of the mill and everyday. Though he has to admit the list is mighty impressive, if only for its length. There are over twenty items, and not a single one would cause a raised an eyebrow on its own. Altogether, however, it seems that when it comes to the Frommiches the laws of probability are taking a prolonged vacation. "They won the lottery twice." He reads a little more. "Ten grand altogether. And the car. But I don't see how can it have anything to do with us. All of these occurred over twenty years."

"Still, that is plenty for one family, wouldn't you say? That much luck in one place suggests the Frommiches had some sort of lucky charm going on."

"It happens. It isn't so suspicious," Deborah says into her teacup.

"Except that supernatural luck has a tendency to fold back on itself and take back its due," William says.

"You think the Frommiches used up our good karma?"

"It's not quite that simple. It is possible that they could have conducted some sort of rituals in the house that left it tainted with a supernatural mark, one that leaves it open for other creatures."

"Is that possible?" Jacob asks leaning forward.

"Honey, we live in a world with ghosts and chupacabras. What isn't possible?"

"I hear Big Foot is not real," William says taking a sip of his tea and Deborah just stares at him.

"That's a shame, Big Foot I'd love to see."

"You jest," William says without looking at Deborah.

"Yes. I'm sorry," she says. Jacob knows she's not.

"You said the Frommiches have moved to Miami, correct?"

"As far as I know. They might well be on bald mountain by now."

Jacob sighs and smiles at William apologetically. "Normally she isn't this contrary," he hastens to explain. "It's just the whole ghostbusters thing was more my idea more than hers, and well."

William stares at him, as if he were trying to look into the depths of his soul and gauge his sincerity somewhat. "I understand," he says eventually. "My sons are convinced I belong in a mental asylum. I try and maintain some form of contact, but it's not easy talking to people who are set on having you committed."

"Oh," Deborah says. There is an awkward pause during which Deborah does her best to force the slightly patronizing look off her face and assume an expression of sympathy. She succeeds with the sympathy, because that one is easy when one is a parent and children are the issue. Jacob feels an ache in his chest when he imagines Rachel disbelieving him to such a degree. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I chose what I did, with all assorted privileges." He stares at the wall, suddenly wistful. "They are good people, don't get me wrong. I did good raising them, at least that's what I try to tell myself every time I call and hear the endless pleas to return home and into a straight jacket."

Jacob doesn't say a word, but he knows just how that feels. Sometimes Deborah gets that look in her eyes, the analytical, cool look, that means she would love to study his mind to see what makes him tick. She is allowing this, Jacob is certain, only because it gives her the chance to see what makes him accept the unacceptable as true and pursue it with single-mindedness worthy of a religious fanatic. If worst comes to worst, Deborah will get a book out of it. Jacob has no doubts it will be wildly successful – i_My Husband Believes in Fairies, A Study Of Madness_/i. Jacob chokes on his tea and spends the next five minutes being rescued from drowning by well meaning walloping on the back. "Ouch," he says, his eyes watering, as the chocking finally subsides and he is able to draw a breath.

"Want to share what was that about, or do I chalk it up to the mystery karma floating around the place?" Deborah asks taking his cup away.

"Could be karma," Jacob agrees readily, not quite willing to admit what he was thinking, in case Deborah takes it seriously. Gentle jabs and irony he can handle, serious study would be a lot harder to dismiss as marital concern.

"So, back to the poor Frommiches," Deborah says. "What is it exactly that we accuse them of?"

"Witchcraft," William says calmly.

"Witchcraft," Deborah repeats turning to Jacob, her eyebrows raised. "Not just ghosts and chupacabras and demons then, there are also witches."

"There are more things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, Mrs Lake. And philosophers went far with increasing the numbers. I have here a couple of books I managed to find on the subject," William says reaching into his bag. The tomes he recovers are thick and much heavier than their volume would suggest.

"Are we supposed to read those?" Deborah asks doubtfully opening the first one. "Because my Latin isn't what it used to be."

"I brought them in case you were curious," he said, shrugging. "I have an idea where should we start looking."

"Great. What are we looking for?"

"Signs." William stands up and wanders about the room. "Did your old house have a basement?"

"Yes."

"May I see it?"

"Sure, why not? I don't think the house's been rebuilt yet. Though I have to say if the Frommiches left something there, they must have hidden it well. I spent a lot of time in there and I can't recall a single sacrificial altar," Deborah says, mouthing words as her fingers trace them on the vellum.

Deborah and Jacob accompany William to their previous house, both curious, for different reasons, what could be hidden in the debris. "Come to think of it, why hasn't it been rebuilt yet?" Deborah asks when they approach. Work is being done, but it seems to progress at a snail's pace. So far the builders have managed to erect a structure and cover it with rudimentary walls, without much care for the aesthetics.

"No one wanted to live here, I guess," Jacob whispers. He can't blame them.

The door is locked. William looks around and to Jacob's surprise pulls out a set of lock picks from his pocket. "What are you doing?" he hisses, looking around wildly.

"Opening the door," William says just as the simple lock clicks and the door swing open. "No one lives here, right?"

"It was locked!"

"It's Saturday and no one lives here, you said so yourself."

Jacob closes his mouth and follows the other two into the gloomy interior. He stops a couple feet in and stares around. The ambience of the hall hits him like a ton of bricks. If he closes his eyes he can picture it perfectly, the pale walls, several pictures Deborah brought from her college dorm, the small antique table which used to belong to his grandmother and here served as a place to keep their keys and stuff that was important enough to keep it within reach but not enough to handle immediately. There were still flakes of the old paint littering the floor. Jacob takes a step forward and in his mind's eye traces his old home. There used to be a crayon line, starting from the coat rack, drawn by the hand of a mischievous three-year-old. The hall was quite bright, as it opened into the living room, whose huge windows admitted all the sunlight in the world. Anne glued pieces of painted glass to the windows, a garland of flowers, so that the sun left a blazing colorful trail on the furniture and the walls. Jacob swallows painfully. It's been a year. He really should be over it.

He feels Deborah's fingers tightening on his biceps and he knows she is thinking the same thing. How can all of that – the painted glass, the wallpaper marred by crayon, the sunlight – vanish in a single night? Nothing is left of the home this used to be.

"Where is the basement?" William asks. His voice booms in the otherwise quiet room and Jacob is startled out of his reverie.

"In the kitchen," he whispers, because it would be sacrilege to talk out loud in here. William gives him a strange look but seems to acknowledge the solemnity of the moment because he doesn't raise his voice again.

"Should I leave you alone?" he asks even as turns towards what used to be the kitchen.

"No, we're fine," Deborah says. Jacob can only nod and follow.

Thankfully, the profound sense of loss Jacob felt so keenly upstairs isn't present in the basement. He never spent much time in there, for one, and for another the basement survived fairly unscathed, considering the ruin that became of the rest of the house. "Hey, I bet this would still work," Deborah says, dipping her fingertips in the dust atop the old washing machine.

Jacob tries to remember how come it was still there. Surely they would have taken everything that could be salvaged?

Luckily, that is the moment when William mutters a quiet "ah-ha!" and bends to the floor. He is using a long knife to push up a crate, which covers a drain. Inside there is a small box which he triumphantly pulls to the surface. Deborah's face is unreadable as she leans over his shoulder to peek inside.

"That's it?" she asks, disappointed. Jacob comes over to look and sure, it isn't much, but what is there is not the usual content of basement drain. "What is it?" he asks.

"It's a hex bag," William announces.

"I'm assuming there is significance to it?"

"Quite. This is the proof someone in this house has dabbled in the occult. I'll have to look it up, to be certain of the specifics," William says slowly. "Huh."

"Good? Bad?"

"It's nothing special," he says finally. He is rummaging through the small pouch. "Run of the mill. Protection. Luck. As far as I can tell it's nothing vicious, nothing even remotely suggesting they wished to infringe on the happiness of others."

"So what you're saying is?"

"It's odd," William says and his face is troubled. He spends most of the evening poring over his books and Jacob notes that he barely consults a dictionary as he does. The box and the items contained therein are spread on the table separately, and for the first time Jacob can get a good look. There are mostly dried herbs, a copper coin, tarnished with time. "That's mandrake," William says. He is pointing at the pieces in turn. "Meadowsweet and mint. All three are used for protection. Copper coin for wealth." He closes the book and leans back against the couch. "Best part is it takes little actual knowledge to put these together. It's a very simple protection, hardly requiring an experienced witch."

"But that's good, right?" Jacob asks. "There was no curse on the house."

"Good and bad, you might say."

"I don't understand."

"The hex bag is simple and protective. It means that the Frommiches were good people, who had just enough faith to help the luck along, but not enough to attempt proper witchcraft."

"I don't see the problem."

"It would protect the house from most unwelcome guests," William says reluctantly. "I don't think a malevolent spirit could enter, not unless it was already there."

"So you're saying something was in the house, was in there all this time?"

"That's an option."

"Could we have brought it here?" Jacob asks and he is panicked.

"Calm down," William says. He stands up and hovers until Jacob starts breathing at his usual pace. "The protection doesn't mean nothing could enter."

"But you said-"

"I said most," William clarifies. "Not all."

"Out with it," Deborah says. Jacob starts because he didn't realize she was there, listening.

"The thing which caused the fire in your home might have been a demon."

"A demon?" Deborah and Jacob say simultaneously.

"There are very few spirits who would be strong enough to disregard a protection spell, even one as small as this. All of them would be malevolent."

"Because burning the house down as a friendly supernatural hello," Deborah says, rolling her eyes.

"You lived," William tells her. "You and your husband had time to escape, with your child. A malevolent spirit, especially one whose goal was revenge would have killed you all."

"As opposed to murdering a five-year-old boy?"

"I can't explain it," William says. "I'm sorry."

"That what good are you?" Deborah hisses. She turns around and leaves the room.

"I'm sorry," William says after a few moments of silence. "I know it is difficult for you."

"We'll be okay," Jacob says, his voice quiet. "We will. Somehow."

The hunter seems to understand the tacit need for him to suddenly be elsewhere. He sweeps all his papers into his bag and is gone before Jacob can ask him to stay. It made no difference, because he doesn't even try. As soon as the door closes he is looking for Deborah. She is in their bedroom, lying with her face pressed against her pillow. Her shoulders are shaking and Jacob hesitates before touching her. The capoiera was no joke, and if he wasn't cautious he was going to end up with his arm broken. Jacob weighs the possible hurt of a broken bone against the misery evident in Deborah's taunt back and he reaches out.

"Honey?" he asks. "Are you okay?"

"Do I look okay to you?"

"Does anyone ever ask that question when things look okay?"

Deborah snorts and starts laughing. "Not fair," she mutters. "You aren't supposed to make me laugh."

"What else would I do?"

"Dinner would be nice."

Jacob sighs. "Done. As long as you don't mind pasta."

"Have I ever?"

"There is a first time for everything."

"Shut up," Deborah mutters and rolls over. Jacob presses a kiss to the nape of her neck and leaves the room. Rachel is sleeping in her cot, surrounded by building blocks. Jacob's brows furrow and he wonders what are they doing there. Rachel loves building blocks, but he can imagine cuddling them would be uncomfortable. He tugs the piece she's suckling on out of her hands and puts it along with the others in the basket. He leaves the nursery and Rachel doesn't so much as stir.

**March 2008**

William doesn't show up at their house for a little less than a year, though Jacob sees him around town from time to time, usually while he shops and once or twice through the window of the launderette. He attends mass every Sunday, but other than a polite nod he makes no move to acknowledge their acquaintance. He spends a lot of his time in the church, conversing with Father Matthews.

When he shows up eventually it is to share the news that he has no news.

"That's certainly newsworthy," Deborah says setting a cup of tea before him.

"Thank you." He brings the cup to his lips and hesitates. "It wasn't an isolated incident," he admits.

"I'm sorry?"

"I talked to other hunters. Apparently there have been cases such as yours, all over the country."

Deborah sits down next to Jacob, intent and quiet. "What does that mean?"

"I don't know," William admits. "The most anyone could tell me was that it was a demon that's responsible and that there are others hunting it. With the demons released last year, however, there's only so much anyone can do."

"So we know it was a demon," Deborah says. "You're saying there were others?"

"Yes. Several others all around the U.S."

"What did the demon want?"

"No one knows."

"Well," Deborah says and Jacob sighs. The sarcasm is making a return, which is good, as it's been way too long.

"But, I have come here with an idea," William announces before Deborah's mouth can open again.

"I'm almost afraid to ask."

"Go on a hunt with me," he says. Deborah stares at him, her eyes round and disbelieving.

"What?"

"You heard me. You don't believe me, I know there is no way I could make you believe, other than show you an actual restless spirit, out for blood. So I'm offering to do just that."

"And where, pray tell, will you find a spirit?"

"Sandwich, Illinois," William says, triumphantly.

"Sandwich," Deborah deadpans.

"Yes. Someone just hanged himself in the Opera House."

"We care about this, because?"

"Because this is the fourth person to be found hanging in the building over the past hundred years."

"Again, what do I care?"

"You don't think it's the least bit suspicious?"

"Not particularly, no. People commit suicide all the time."

"Deborah, you've been busy making comments behind my back, and I don't really mind, but I need you both to trust me a little. You need to believe that what I do isn't a product of an unstable mind or schizophrenia. Which means, you need proof. I can think of nothing better than an honest to God hunt."

"What would this entail?" Jacob asks, crossing his arms across his chest.

"I did preliminary research. The victims were all men in their fifties, one of them the mayor, one a police officer, two were doctors."

"What does that prove? Four men over a hundred years, that's really not that much."

"That four men who had nothing to complain about in their livelihoods committed suicide in the Opera House. Which is also the town hall, but that's not the point."

"I still don't get it."

"Which is why we have to go to Sandwich," William says. "Most of the research has to be done traditionally and in person, as not everything is on the Internet."

Deborah spends some time staring at him, not quite buying what he's selling. "You're serious," she says eventually.

"Of course."

Deborah looks at Jacob, who is wearing a similar expression of surprise and uncertainty on his face. "We work for a living," she said turning to William.

"Sandwich is only a couple hours out, if we go on Friday evening there is a good chance we'll be back by Sunday afternoon."

Jacob hopes, fervently she'll say yes. He doesn't need convincing himself, and if Deborah were perfectly honest Jacob is sure she would be forced to admit she believes, too. It would be nice to make her admit it, all the same.

"Fine," Deborah says and Jacob cheers. Internally, because he knows Deborah wouldn't appreciate the plotting behind her back.

"Splendid. Pack and we can go."

"Whoa, there. It's not that simple. We have a baby in the house."

"Right, I forgot. Sorry."

"We can leave her with your parents," Jacob suggests.

"They're beginning to feel like babysitters," Deborah mutters.

"Mine are in Miami," Jacob reminds her.

"I know, I know. You're right."

Saturday morning they pack up and leave a pouting Rachel in Deborah's mother's arms. "You'll be back on Sunday?" she asks, cuddling the girl to her. Rachel looks up and gurgles a word that possibly is supposed to be "grandma", but doesn't quite arrive there. It might be that the cookie in her mouth prevents the verbal effort from succeeding.

"Yes, we will," Deborah says, and Jacobs nods. Ghosts or no ghosts, they can't afford to skip work.

They follow William's beat up Toyota to the city of Sandwich, Illinois. He doesn't bother with the hotels and other such nonsense, but heads straight to the public library. "What is it that we're looking for?" Deborah asks before they approach the scary old lady manning the front desk. She gives them a formidable glare, like the guardian of the precious temple of knowledge in which people rarely worship anymore. Jacob is willing to bet this here is the last crusader against the digital gods of the Internet.

"Good evening," William says, ignoring Deborah's question. "Can you direct us to the newspaper archive?" Jacob watches this quite bemused. William cleaned up for the occasion and found a smart shirt and slacks. He almost looks like a respectable citizen, or would have, had the image of him toting a gun wasn't so fresh in Jacob's mind. "Thank you."

"This," William says when they are alone and surrounded by miles of shelves of dusty old papers, "Is where the magic happens," he announces.

"You don't say?" Deborah looks around, careful not to touch anything. The dust is not so much a problem for this library as it is an old friend, invited to stay. It provides a veritable account of when was the archive last visited, better almost than the official records, because dusty shelves do not lie.

"This might take a while," Jacob agrees.

"We're looking for obituaries," William says briskly pulling down the first batch of newspapers. "Or news reports. Specifically those relating to people dying in the Opera House in freak accidents."

"Meaning suicide."

"That may very well be the case, yes."

"Alright," Deborah sighs and pulls down a folder of yellowed pages. "This had better be worth it."

They spend the Saturday reading through the old papers. By the time they get hungry Jacob is certain he will take the chair with him when he stands, because no way it hasn't grown into his spine. On the plus side, if he can call it that, he has found a wide selection of interesting deaths, which occurred in or around the Opera House. He is glad he doesn't work in Sandwich. Obviously insurance companies should give the place a wide berth.

"That makes five, the oldest on the 4th of December 1900 until May 30th, 1930," Deborah says getting up. "Before that, nothing for about ten years."

"What happened before that?"

"The Opera House was built, obviously."

"They aren't all hangings, either," William notes, frowning. "What did you find?" he asks Jacob.

"Three people died in the past forty years," Jacob reports stiffly. His back hurts and his legs won't stop twitching. "One suicide, one heart attack and a murder."

"Murder?"

"That's what the paper says."

"This is not good," William admits. "I found two more."

"So ten altogether," Deborah says holding up her hand. "Except it's over the course of over a century, so it's not that much."

"Not enough for people to notice, especially if they all look like accidents." William leans back. "Let's get lunch," he suggests.

Jacob doesn't protest the idea, but spends the next hour picking on a Greek salad, while Deborah and William indulge in steaks with French-fries on the side.

"So what now,Van Helsing?" Deborah asks.

William ignores the jibe. "What's the oldest death we found?" he asks instead.

"4th of December 1900. The lead singer hanged himself after the show flopped."

"Nothing before that?"

"Not that I could find," Deborah replies.

"Hah."

"What does that mean?" Jacob wants to know, curious despite himself.

"That we most likely have our killer," William says triumphantly and waves the waitress over.

"I wanted to be a cop when I was in high school," Deborah confessed suddenly. "It seemed like such a cool thing, running around, touting a gun. The uniform is nothing to scoff at, either."

"What stopped you?"

"Jacob, mostly."

"I did no such thing!"

"I meant that figuratively," Deborah soothed, petting his hand. She smiled at him, but the words still stung.

"What do we do now?" Jacob asked turning to William.

"Tonight we should get into the Opera building, confirm that it's the guy we think it is. Then we burn the bones."

"Wait, hold up. Burn the bones? How do we do that?"

"Well, we need to recover the corpse, first of all, obviously."

Jacob stares at the wall ahead of him. Recover the corpse. If that means what he thinks it means… "You mean we have to dig up an actual grave?" he asks, though he really doesn't have to.

"I'm afraid so."

"But that's- illegal," he finishes lamely, even though the legality is the least of his worries. Far more pressing is the vision of a rotting body in a coffin, eaten away by insects and fungi… Suddenly the tomatoes and lettuces look a lot less appealing than they did moments before and Jacob feels irritated more than anything else. "Shit," he mutters, dropping his fork onto the plate. "I have no idea what's wrong with me."

"I'm not exactly comfortable with desecrating a grave," Deborah hisses under her breath. The waitress is on the other side of the establishment and the only other patrons are sitting by the window on the other side, but the words aren't easy to even think, let alone voice.

"I know how you feel," William says and Jacobs sincerely doubts it, "But there's really no other option. Sometimes ghosts can leave of their own volition, or are forced to leave, but that's always uncertain. It helps if you don't think of it as desecration."

"Yes, rename it, please." Jacob lifts a cube of feta cheese to his mouth.

"Now that you put it like that, there's really nothing I can say," William shrugs. "It's regrettable, but it's a necessity. As I said, think of it as putting a spirit to rest rather than dishonoring human remains."

Jacob has a decent imagination and a good visual memory to go with it. The former is working to his disadvantage these days. "Why is that I can watch Bones with no problems at all but I throw up whenever I see a dead cow," he asks his salad, closing his eyes so he doesn't see the sympathy on Deborah's face.

No way he'll be able to go anywhere near a grave with the intention of uncovering it, he thinks, willing the mental pictures away.

"Bones isn't real, honey," Deborah tells him.

"I know that."

"And it makes all the difference."

William watches the two of them curiously. "Bones? I thought you work in insurance."

"It's a TV show," Deborah explains, bemused. "People die in ghastly ways and the heroine solves the crime by staring at the skeleton."

"I don't watch TV," William says.

"So what do you do, knit?"

"I read. There is an infinite amount of types of monsters, not all easily identifiable. It pays to know folklore and mythologies."

"It's a hobby, I guess," Deborah says and grins. Jacob just sits there and ponders the possibilities of getting out of this with his stomach still in his abdominal cavity. The chances are smaller and smaller, he thinks as William takes the time to talk about all the ways this hunt could go wrong. He goes all out when they arrive at a motel, falling just short of making a PowerPoint presentation, but his talk is all too visual to Jacob's eyes anyway. The amount of things to watch out for is awfully long, to Jacob's ears.

"Lastly, this ghost is pretty old," Jacob hears. "Which gives it experience."

"Fantastic," he mutters.

"We'll go in around midnight," William says. "I took a glance earlier, they have little by way of a security system, save for the guard, and he's mostly patrolling the offices. We should be safe."

"Should be?"

"I mean from the legal forces."

Jacob could live without the clarification. His heart is so high up his digestive tract he can taste it in his mouth when they finally leave the motel. Deborah looks a little apprehensive but nowhere near the level of panic he is at. The town is quiet and doesn't seem to care that a trio of random people seems intent on breaking into their landmark. Jacob finds that extremely unsettling. Not as unsettling that they are in the Opera House, hunting for the phantom though. He wonders if this is the twilight zone yet. Theatres have something creepy about them at all times, but wandering about this place in the middle of the night with nary a light is something else entirely.

Jacobs shudders as William skillfully opens the door to the auditorium and in they walk, in the hushed silence native to church halls. He keeps his eyes on the stage, or at least the direction he assumes is the stage, because the empty chairs on either side are too much of a fodder for imagination. William leads them onto the stage and through the gap in the curtains.

"What are we doing here?" Deborah whispers.

"We are going to summon the ghost," William says.

"Sure, why not. I'm all for moving plates and such."

"If I'm right and this is a ghost, we should see much more than moving plates," William says.

"Splendid."

William starts rummaging through his bag. First thing he does is pulling up a container of salt and making a rough circle, three yards in diameter, in the middle of the empty floor. Then he sets about preparing what looks like a makeshift altar, with the photo of the first victim of the Opera House deaths.

"What's the salt for?" Deborah asks.

"For trapping the spirit," William says, not looking up from his task. "Ghosts cannot cross a salt line."

"Anything we should be doing?" Deborah asks.

"No. Stay where you are," William says and starts chanting. At first nothing happens. There is silence and the sound of air moving, oddly complemented by William's melodic recitation of Latin. Then Jacob feels the chill. It seeps into him from all around, mindless of his clothes, chilling him to the bone. He sees his breath; a puff of grey mist against the blackness surrounding them feels like the only real thing for a second. Then he finds he cannot breathe. There are fingers around his neck, ice cold and strong. Jacob feels a tiny gasp emerge and he is clawing at his own neck, trying to relieve the pressure and feeling the horror when he finds nothing to fight against.

"Jacob!" he hears Deborah's voice and strains to look at her. She is fine, though her eyes are wide as saucers, staring at him and whoever it is that decided Jacob needs strangling.

"Fuck!" It takes a moment and then William is there with an iron rod. He brings it down hard and so close to Jacob's head he closes his eyes anticipating the blow. All he feels, however, is a gust of wind against his back.

"What was that?" he whizzes, his palm against his neck.

"That," William says hauling him up and pulling him into the salt circle, "Was Francois Lloyd."

"The lead performer," Deborah whispers. She is standing on Jacob's other side, holding his arm in a tight grip. "The one who died in 1900."

"Precisely. He seems a lot more angry than I expected," William says.

"You don't say," Jacob manages just as the ghost appears before them again.

He is – or was – a slender man in his forties. His skin is pale, but that could just be the lighting. He is wearing a costume, or half of one at least. The other half has been burned by the fire that took most of his chest and left arm. Jacob averts his eyes but it is too late – the image of the charred flesh is burned into his retinas already.

"He doesn't look like the photo," Deborah realizes and Jacob is this close to cheering in a sarcastic manner. He doesn't because the effort to hold the bile south of his esophagus is taking up most of his conscious mind.

"He doesn't?" William asks, surprised.

"No. He's similar, but it's not him."

"Splendid," William says. "Fantastic."

"What do we do now?" she asks, and Jacob is wildly jealous and bitter at the same time. He didn't spend half a year denying the possibility of existence of the thing before them, why is Deborah staring it in the face with no obvious discomfort when he is holding down his dinner with both hands?

"We need to find out who he is," William says, his voice tight. "After we get out."

"How do we do that?" Deborah asks. "Won't he follow?"

"I don't think he can leave the Opera House," William says. "Spirits are usually bound to a place."

"We are far from the door."

"There're three of us. Even a ghost can't be in two places at once."

"Good for us."

"Can it kill us?"

"It went for Jacob, first," William says, and his voice is quiet.

"So he was standing closest to where it appeared, it doesn't mean anything."

William doesn't answer but from his silence Jacob infers it means something and quite a big something at that. "You go first and take this." William hands her the rod and hauls Jacob up once more. "It's iron. Iron dispels most evil creatures."

Deborah says nothing. She grips it and steps out of the salt circle, looking around carefully. William follows and Jacob allows himself to be dragged. His eyes are mostly closed, because if he has to see the man who looks like he should be writhing on the ground in an extreme amount of pain he will throw up, and he is certain that might prove to be a problem. William kicks the salt around, as much as possible, and they make their way back onstage and out of the Opera House without incident, unless the fact that the ghost appears once more, going for Jacob's throat, counts as an incident.

Jacob feels betrayed when it becomes apparent that it doesn't.

"This feels kind of good," Deborah says, swinging the iron bar through the ghost's head.

"It's less fun when it goes for your throat," William admits and Jacob wants to hug him, "But yes, it does feel good."

Back at the motel Jacob makes a beeline for the bathroom. The vomit seems nicely settled in his stomach though and won't come out, leaving Jacob with a sense of vague sickness that wouldn't be dispelled. "I've never once thought I'd want to throw up," Jacob says to the white fixtures in the room as he rinses his mouth. When he returns to the room Deborah is sitting on the king-sized bed looking through her notes. She is chewing on the pen, her hair is tousled and has a look of excitement about her, one that Jacob isn't sure he can forgive. He was being strangled not half an hour ago.

"How are you feeling?" Jacob asks, feeling uncharitable for hoping she'd say she felt bad. Judging by the smile on her face it's not going to happen.

"A little weirded out, actually," she says. "William says we need to do some more digging."

"That so?"

"Yeah. I'm sure the ghost wasn't our guy, so he says we must have missed something." She looks at him and the smile immediately vanishes. "Hey," she says standing up and wrapping her arms around his neck. "Are you okay?"

"Not really," Jacob says. "I think I'd be happy if I never saw a ghost again."

"Most people who'd seen one would say that. I know I would."

"You took it pretty well though."

"I'm still waiting for the shock to hit me," Deborah grins wildly and Jacob can see plain as day, she is lying. Lying to make him feel better, but lying nonetheless.

"What are we going to do?" he asks then, resting his head against her shoulder. Deborah holds him close and steers them towards the bed.

"Well, tomorrow you'll wait here and," she says sweetly, kissing his cheek. "I'll go and help with the grave desecration, once we find out who our ghost is."

"I don't want to just wait," he says. That ghost is scary he wants to add. It was strangling him and if he were alone… He doesn't want to be alone.

"Honey, it'll be okay. You saw it didn't even look at me; obviously it fancies men."

"Thanks for that."

"You know you won't be okay with digging up a grave," Deborah says. Jacob feels like arguing, because he hasn't actually done that before and old bones can't be as bad as a walking corpse. All the same, he knows it won't be comfortable.

"I'll worry about you," he says.

"I won't be going alone."

William chooses this moment to knock on the door. "Hey," he says extending his arm. He is holding a bag of rock salt.

"What are we supposed to do with it?" Deborah asks.

"The ghost might be bound to the Opera House, but it could leave, once it's chosen a victim. Make a salt line on every window and every door. And keep the iron at hand."

Deborah is past the point of shrugging and commenting under her breath. She takes the bag and spends ten minutes arranging the salt lines to her liking. Jacob sits on the bed, watching dumbly as she pours the final line on the bathroom window. "I think that's all," she says wiping her brow.

Jacob is lost for words. He allows Deborah to push him into the bathroom and then pull him out, into bed, where he lies for most of the night staring at the ceiling. Way to be the most useless person in all of existence, he thinks with distaste. Even ghosts want him dead. Deborah snores on his shoulder, her fingers wrapped around the iron bar as though it were a security blanket. Comforted by the weight of the arm across his chest, Jacob falls asleep eventually, dreaming of salt and Opera divas, who sing their final notes as they take a swan dive into the fire.

Next morning they are in the library again, sifting through the same newspapers with fresh insight. Jacob reads through the Sunday edition, a tad disturbed to find himself in the press, if only by proxy. "They said someone noticed our presence in the Opera," he says quietly spreading the paper on the table. William scans the article and shrugs. "They're going to attribute it to teenagers," he says.

Since the headline reads "Séance in the Town Hall," Jacob is willing he is correct. They have subs for lunch then return to sifting through a century's worth of newspapers, searching for the culprit.

"I think I got it," Deborah says finally, a short while before library is due to close. "Brad Lloyd. Killed during the construction of the building."

"How do you know it's him?"

"There's a photo. He's the brother of the lead singer." Deborah's brows furrow. "Apparently there was some sort of a misunderstanding between the two of them and for a time Francois was suspected of murder."

"Which might explain why Brad killed him," William said. "Good job."

"But why did he kill all the rest? Why does he want to kill Jacob?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," William shrugs and starts piling the papers. "Now we just have to locate his grave."

"That shouldn't be too hard."

"No, it's just the digging up part that's bothersome," William said.

"I can imagine."

"It's Sunday," Jacob says.

"Yeah, it's Sunday," Deborah says. "Damn, I forgot. We need to get Rachel tonight."

"We didn't go to church," he says. "And yeah, there's Rachel."

"I forgot," Deborah says. She starts picking up her things.

"No, it's okay," Jacob says. "I can go and pick up Rachel. You can come back later."

"Would you?" Deborah asks. "Thanks."

"You know we can't get to the cemetery until about midnight."

"So?"

"You'll be late for work."

"Damn, forgot, again." Deborah picks up her phone and starts punching keys. "Hey, Maria. Listen, something came up. Can you cover my morning patients? No, not Leon, cancel him, tell him I will call back. Yeah, thanks. No, I will be back tomorrow. Yeah. Thanks, I'll make it up to you."

"That sounded a lot simpler than it should."

"I don't shirk often," Deborah says, shrugging.

Jacob smiles weakly and gets up. "I'll take the car," he says. He leaves the library with his head full and his mind empty. The drive is uneventful. Deborah's parents welcome him into the house, offer him tea and fresh cookies. Jacob is not hungry, but the cookies are disappearing at a steady pace and he is certain Rachel is not the one who is eating them. Jacob finds another cookie between his teeth and he chews. The cookies are good. There are chocolate chips in them and the tea is flavored with bergamot. It is soothing, as much as Rachel's slight weight in his lap.

"Where's Deborah?" Danielle asks, setting yet another plate of cookies before him.

"She had to stay a little longer," he answers and takes a cookie. They turn out to have almond crust. "She didn't have patients tomorrow morning, and I have to be at work, so…"

"We're a little worried about you, Jacob," Danielle says and Tom grunts something from the other side of the room. "You seem a little off."

"It's nothing," he hastens to assure his in-laws. "It's just that I'm a little stressed out."

Rachel gurgles and he looks down. "Daddy sad," she says, patting his nose.

"I'm fine, sweetie."

At least that's what he thinks throughout the night. He doesn't sleep. He lies still in the bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if his head is right. A rosary is in his fingers, the beads sliding through with practiced ease. "Hail Mary full of grace," he whispers into the silence. "Please look after Deborah. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary," he whispers and though he stares at the ceiling of his own bedroom and he knows it is warm, he shudders. "…Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and in the hour of death."

It's cold. His breath is a stark white against the darkness, and Jacob feels the chill in his bones. He should be, but isn't surprised when he sees the Lloyd ghost standing before his bed. Somehow it looks worse when confronted with the familiarity and comfort of Jacob's bedroom. It is staring at Jacob and he can do nothing but stare back, in horrified fascination. The spirit's face is burnt too, as if the flames were licking him up, devouring him from the bottom up. One of his feet is nothing but charred bone, held together by sheer will. "You killed your own son," the ghost says, and his voice is more of a vibration that bores into the mind than actual words. Jacob shudders and draws a breath.

"I couldn't save him," he says.

"You watched him die," Brad Lloyd says, and his lips move though half his face is charred and burnt.

"I couldn't do anything!" Jacob protests, the anguish choking the breath out of him. There was nothing he could do, nothing he had time for.

"You killed him," the ghost says and steps closer. His hand is extending, skin boiled and broken, revealing the muscles and tendons beneath and Jacob clutches his rosary tighter.

"Our Father, who art in Heaven," he whispers closing his eyes. He cannot move. He is worthless. He allowed his son to die a horrible, fiery death. He doesn't deserve to stare at the sun, he doesn't deserve to breathe the fresh air. He should die, because nothing short of death would be penance enough for the death of his child. Jacob stands and looks the ghost in the face. There are knives in the kitchen, his mind supplies. There is Deborah's gun in the closet. There is water in the pipes. There is gas in the oven. There are the stairs.

"You killed your son," the ghost says again, and Jacob feels the rosary fall from his fingers. He looks the spirit in the face and nods. He takes a step forward and closes his eyes, knowing he will be led where he needs to go. He feels a touch of ice-cold fingers against his wrists and he takes another step.

And then, with no warning, the chill is gone. Jacob opens his eyes and watches the spirit burn, casting neither light, nor warmth onto the room. He just writhes as he burns and within seconds he is gone, dust spilling into the air and vanishing before it reaches the carpet.

Jacob breathes out and hangs his head. Belatedly the thought filters into his mind that Deborah and William must have burned the body just now. Following that there's the insistent idea that he was staring his death in the face, moment ago. He was actually holding hands with his death, death that was going to lead him to the closet and make him swallow the muzzle of the gun Deborah bought. "That's ridiculous," he scoffs. But somehow he knows that's exactly what it was. He would have died, if Deborah and William were moments too late.

Jacob turns the thought around in his head. Himself, dead. Technically at his own hand, too. Killed by a gun whose presence in the house he vehemently protested. If that's not irony, he thinks, he doesn't know what is. He falls back onto the bed and laughs himself to sleep, though when he wakes in the early morning his face is wet with tears he doesn't remember shedding.

The alarm clock is insistent and doesn't take ignoring it kindly. Jacob wakes up lying across the bed with no covers in sight and despite the ambient temperature of the room he is cold. He showers quickly, then goes to wake up Rachel. He has work and Mrs Mone will be expecting the child soon. Rachel is already awake and smiling at him, bright as the light of day. She has his eyes, everyone says. Jacob believes them, because everyone they know cannot be wrong, not really, but to him Rachel's face is a reflection of Deborah's and Anne's. The stubborn pout twisting her features when she doesn't want something is the exact same expression Deborah's baby pictures display.

"Awake already?" he asks, lifting Rachel out of the cot.

"Pretty light," she says and grins at him. Jacob dresses her and brushes her hair. He is at a loss as to what the ribbon she is handing him is for; he is vaguely aware it's supposed to go in her hair, but how and where exactly is lost on him. Perhaps Mrs Mone will know.

"Debbie isn't back yet," he mutters walking downstairs. There's no sign of anyone having been in the house during the night. He is worried, even though he shouldn't be, as he saw the ghost die, again, but his mobile phone quells his fears. There's a text message waiting for him – "everything's good, we burned the corpse in his grave," which is a little more imagery than he needs, but he is grateful for the reassurance all the same.

"See," he says holding up the phone to show Rachel. "You mommy just killed a mean ghost." Rachel reaches out, her intention to show her approval by inserting the device into her mouth clear, but Jacob doesn't let her have the chance. "No slobbering on the electrical equipment, you know that."

"Daddy," she whines and Jacob hands her a piece of toast to chop on instead.

They eat their breakfast and quarter of an hour after that Jacob stops his car in front of Mrs Mone's house. The old lady is waiting and in no time Jacob is waving Rachel goodbye. He's at work early and since the season is slow in damages and claims, he is on his way to pick up Rachel well ahead of schedule. Halfway home he remembers they have nothing to make dinner with, so he makes a sharp turn and parks at a supermarket first. Deborah, if she went to work, would be too tired to cook.

He picks up Rachel and when he gets home Deborah is snoring on the couch in the living room. She's wearing a blouse and a necklace and her least favorite skirt. She must have gone to work immediately after returning from Sandwich. Jacob leaves Rachel playing in her pen as he goes to unpack the groceries and make dinner. He chops whatever vegetables he finds are edible at the moment and drops them into a pan, to sizzle on the hot oil. The pasta is simmering on the stove, close to being ready, when he wakes Deborah up.

"Hey," he says, his voice quiet and with a note of something much like uncertainty. "Are you okay?"

Deborah blinks and her eyes slowly come into focus. "Hey," she answers, whispering. "How was your day?"

"Boring. No one broke anything recently."

"Mine too." Deborah yawns. "Good thing, I was so tired."

"How did it go last night?" Jacob asks, without real desire to know the answer. He knows they succeeded, or he wouldn't be asking.

"Oh, it was a high," Deborah says and she is so bright and excited, it's painful to watch. "I stayed awake this long on adrenaline alone." Jacob forces a smile onto his face. "We actually uncovered the grave, can you imagine? It was fantastic. Well, no. It was disrespectful and a crime. But still, being in a cemetery in the middle of the night, that part was spectacular," she says almost wistfully as she shimmies out of her pantyhose.

"Sounds exciting," Jacob manages.

"Yeah. Good thing you didn't stay, the corpse was pretty gross. You'd expect clean bones, right? After more than a century, it'd be fair. It wasn't clean, let me tell you that."

"Thanks, but no."

"Sorry." Deborah grins and pulls him closer. "Let's have sex."

"What, now?"

"You have something better to do?"

"There's dinner…"

"Screw dinner. Wait, no. Don't. I'm hungry."

"It's cooking," Jacob says. "I made pasta."

"You're a godsend, honey."

"So, food?"

"I don't know, the choice is tough," Deborah says and smiles, tongue peeking out from behind her teeth. Jacob bends his head and kisses her.

"I bet," he says straightening. "Rachel is playing in her pen."

"Okay, I'll get the baby. Spoilsport."

"Am not."

They have dinner. It is silent and uncomfortable, the good kind of uncomfortable. Deborah keeps sending Jacob smoldering glances over her food, which she inhales rather than consumes. He isn't surprised when she does the same thing to him, minutes after dinner is done and Rachel is in her playpen. Deborah is scary and possessive, holding his head as she kisses him aggressively. Jacob has a fleeting thought of how he never figured desiccated corpses would be such an aphrodisiac, but then again, what does he know? He abandons that train of thought before it takes him places he doesn't want to go, and starts unbuttoning her blouse instead. Her hands leave his face then, ripping the buttons out of the holes, her hands dipping under his shirt.

"Should I be worried you find corpses this sexy?" Jacob rasps when Deborah pushes him against the couch and falls on top of him.

"Are you a corpse?"

"Not that I'm aware."

"Then obviously I still prefer the living."

"Thank you, that's comforting." He throws his head back and moans when she hitches the skirt up around her waist and straddles him. She's not wearing any underwear.

"You missed me," she whispers bending to claim his mouth. "Admit it."

"Never denied it," Jacob replies as she guides his erection into her and pauses, resting her clammy forehead on his collarbone.

"I missed you," she whispers and starts kissing his skin, wherever she can reach. "I missed you."

Jacob tries not to make too much of it, but his mind is treacherously taking him in that direction anyway. She had someone else at hand, and really, corpses shouldn't be that appealing, adrenaline be damned. The thought is ugly and it scares him. He doesn't want to think it, dear Lord, he doesn't. He loves Deborah and he trusts her.

He loves her more than anything.

He does.

He pulls her head towards his, so that he can kiss her as he comes, his eyes closed and a stab of fear in his heart. They are okay, aren't they?

Deborah is breathing against his chest and every breath is tinged with laughter. She is happy and safe and Jacob feels like a moron. He sits up carefully tipping her back against the couch and does his best to give her an orgasm of the century.

Deborah falls asleep after that, snoring peacefully, but Jacob finds sleep out of reach. He stares at the ceiling, helpless and wondering how the world spins. Something must have tilted on its axis, because he has trouble telling where he stands, which rarely happens. He might not be a rocket scientist, but he was always certain of where his place in the universe was. Not so much now, to his chagrin. Now the world spins and his head is spinning along with the globe, making the view seem so much more blurred.

Tuesday morning is rushed and panicked and altogether does nothing to slow the rapid pace, which Jacob feels dragging him along. They overslept, Deborah due to exhaustion, Jacob because he'd failed to set the alarm clock. He had trouble falling asleep and the assumption that he will stay awake until morning was obviously a mistake.

"I'm going to be late," Deborah calls as she runs past the kitchen grabbing an apple and handing Rachel a cup of juice. "Can you drop Rachel off? I cannot be late, Leon's appointment is this morning."

"Sure," Jacob replies, but she is already out the door. He hears her car start and leave the driveway. He shares a look with Rachel and they both smile. "We don't have that much time either," he tells the baby poking her nose. "So you are not to make a mess, okay?"

"Daddy!" Rachel says, waving her arms in glee. "Food!"

"Correct. You are still not to make a mess."

She laughs and it is only his hurried reaction that prevents the juice from being spilt all over the floor. "How did you learn to open the cup?" he asks, dumfounded. It shouldn't be possible for a child her age. He has no time to muse, however. Jacob mops up the few drops that escaped the red cup and hurries out the door, all but throwing Rachel into the arms of Mrs Mone.

He makes it to work with ten seconds to spare, which goes largely unnoticed. "Good morning, Mr Lake," Nancy says, beaming.

"Hello Nancy. Is there anything for me?"

"Nothing big," she says, nevertheless handing over a few files.

Jacob reads through them carefully. Nothing big indeed, but enough detail to keep his attention for the better part of the day. A Mr Thomas Edwardson had a minor car accident. His arm wasbroken. It's so perfectly mundane and set at the usual spin of the world, Jacob gratefully sinks into the frame of mind necessary to process the details and confirm that this indeed sounds plausible and doesn't require further attention.

There are advantages to having a desk job, namely that he can get off at five p.m. and go home. He is strangely reluctant to do so this afternoon, knowing that home is spinning out of his control and into the realm of supernatural phenomena he is not ready, or just unwilling, to face. It takes Nancy to break him out of his funk and send him on his way. On some level he is aware he is stalling, and that he doesn't want to go home; this is the same level that acknowledges that reading the insurance claims is mind numbing. He clings to the side that suggests these are real people counting on the money, because it makes him feel better about not wanting to go home and talk to Deborah.

"Mr Lake?" Nancy asks, head poking over his desk.

"Yes?"

"It's almost six. Aren't you going home?"

"Yes, thank you, Nancy. I lost track of time." He collects his things and drives home. It scares him that he drives so slow, people actually honk at him.

"Hey honey, busy day?" Deborah asks. She is wearing a washed out pair of jeans and a snug shirt, one that he vaguely remembers from their honeymoon. It is soft and comfortable and she likes to wear it about the house even though her figure has changed since then and the buttons strain to keep the material together.

"Yeah, I lost track of time," Jacob says, undoing his tie. "I kept reading the same thing over and over."

"Poor baby," Deborah laughs.

"How did it go with the ghost?" Jacob asks, more than certain he doesn't want to know.

"That was amazing," Deborah says throwing herself into a chair. "We actually got to hit this ghost, hit him like it was there. It was gross, I'll grant you that. But amazing."

"Hitting a ghost was amazing?"

"It was real. It's like – I know these things are real, I can see them well enough. I can see what they can do. But they are not tangible real. They seem to be more there when I know I can touch them, not just see them."

"They are real enough to me," Jacob says turning his head.

"I'm sorry, honey."

"It's not your fault," he says, shrugging. I just don't stomach these things, he wants to add, but doesn't. Being afraid is one thing. He knows Deborah is afraid, hell, William is scared he saw that much. But neither of them looked like they were about to collapse when a ghost starts charging. Jacob never thought of himself as cowardly, but obviously now's the time to start. Deborah is looking at him, thoughtful and searching and he groans. "Please stop."

"Stop what?"

"Don't analyze me. I'm not your patient."

"You're not a coward," she says and he sputters.

"What?" Of all the things to say, this was one of the few he didn't expect.

"You're not."

"I damn near fainted in the opera."

"But you went, that counts for something."

"Yeah. I bet."

"All I'm saying is, you're not a coward just because you find things that look like walking corpses gross."

"You don't."

"I never said I didn't, I'm just better at handling them. Besides, some people cut bodies open for a living."

"You don't," Jacob repeats stubbornly.

"There is an ounce of medicine in psychology, you know. And I was this close to going to med school anyway."

"What stopped you?"

"Workload," Deborah said, shrugging. "Psychology seemed easier. I don't regret it, seeing how Anne works herself to the bone now."

"The saving people thing didn't seem like an incentive enough?"

"Yeah, it was, for a while. But hey, we can't all be heroes." Despite the words there is a hint of wistfulness in her voice, one so faint that Jacob isn't sure if he isn't imagining it.

The question spills out of his lips before he can thing about it. "Is that why you swallowed up this hunting thing?"

Deborah laughs. "What? That hardly counts as saving people, honestly. It's an adrenaline rush more than anything. How many people can say they've actually seen a ghost?"

"People were dying because of that ghost," Jacob points out, cautiously tiptoeing around the fact that he almost died too. "And now they won't anymore."

Deborah looks at him, and her eyes are wide, as though the thought's never crossed her mind. Jacob shakes his head. "Never mind," he says and kisses her languid and deep.

**TBC**


	7. Chapter 7

**June 2008**

For some time nothing changes, which Jacob finds unsettling. Things are wont to change, regardless of wishes and desires. There is an inevitability to change that needs to be taken into account when planning for the future. So yes, he is expecting a change. He is ready for it, in a way. He anticipates it, after a while with urgency. The anticipation grows every day when Deborah comes back home, kisses him and fixes dinner. He is ready for a change and doesn't know how to handle the lack of one. When it finally comes, it leaves him with mixed feelings. On one hand, it is finally there, he can stop dreading and start accepting. On the other…

It starts innocently enough. Jacob walks into the bedroom after a shower, his hair sticking in every direction and still dripping. Deborah is in bed, lost in a book. Jacob drapes the wet towel over the backrest of a chair and starts hunting for his pyjamas. He finds them underneath the table, which proves to be a bit of a conundrum. How on earth did they get there? He pulls them on regardless and slithers under the covers.

Lying on his pillow he has a better vantage point for see what was it that Deborah finds so engrossing as to ignore him prancing naked about their bedroom. The hex bag William found in their old house is in her hand, kneaded thoughtfully by her hand as she traces the hand-written letters in the old volume.

"Can you not bring that to bed?" Jacob asks. He is tired and for once he would like a night without a mention of the supernatural business.

"Sorry," Deborah says. She marks her place and sets the book aside, hex bag in tow. She turns to kiss him, her breath minty and fresh from the toothpaste, and they sleep. Jacob dreams of singing ghosts, which is not the mundane dream he would have preferred, but vastly superior to alternatives.

Two days later he returns home to find the living room curtains blocking all the sunlight from entering. Instead there is a white sheet on the coffee table and five white candles provide light. The flames flicker and the shadows on the wall twitch along with them, caught in a moment of endless dance. On the table there is a bowl of salt and another, filled with clear liquid, between the too, on the white linen, there are leaves and roots.

Deborah is kneeling in front of the table, facing the eastern window, and carefully spreads a square sheet of dark linen before the bowls. One by one she picks up the items, first the leaf, the root, a shard of wood, which she first held in the flame of the middle candle; onto them she pours the grainy salt, and thick oil from a small flask. A drop of water from the second bowl and she is folding the material around the mound in the middle, and ties it off with a leather strap. Throughout it all her mouth never stops moving, whispering words in a low but steady murmur that brings shivers to Jacob's spine.

"Deb?" he says quietly, trying not to show how terrified he is. "What are you doing?"

Deborah ignores him, until she finishes by tying off the material into a bag shape. "Well, it got me thinking," she says getting off her knees the hex bag in hand. "This hunting thing. "If those things do exist, it's only sensible that we use some sort of protection."

"We're Catholic," Jacob reminds her.

"It's not contraceptive," she says, a tiny hint of smirk on her mouth. "Relax. I picked the herbs in the park, and the salt is just salt. I doubt it's strong enough to stop a really determined spirit from entering, but it might stop a random visit."

"Leviticus had some strong things to say about this kind of things."

"And see where it got them. Jacob, seriously. This is a bag with mint and salt and a cedar toothpick in it."

Jacob resists telling her this qualifies as witchcraft and though he has no intention of heeding Leviticus on that point, he worries. Deborah sees his discomfort and comes closer to plant a soft kiss on his mouth. "Look, this is no bigger than lining the windows with salt," she says. "I just put in the protective herbs, those that stop the supernatural things from entering. Nothing heavy, I promise."

Jacob doesn't believe her. He finds it absolutely terrifying, over the next few months, that coming home on work days and finding Deborah sitting cross-legged on the carpet surrounded with candles and assembling hex bags is such a usual occurrence. He made a point of putting more crucifixes around the house, because charms was one thing, but the latest spell includes bird bones, and he doesn't really care that they come from chicken they have for dinner.

"You're truly brilliant," William says to Deborah when he drops in to visit a little while later. He is carrying a bottle of wine to celebrate. "That hex was absolutely spot on, thank you."

"What hex?" Jacob asks.

"I was hunting his tenacious bugger who wouldn't leave even after I torched his corpse. He had so many things he was invested in emotionally, I'd have to burn the town to the ground and still have plenty left to hunt down. Deborah found a spell that would summon and bind him to a specific object, one that could easily be destroyed."

Jacob turns to look at Deborah and she at least looks ashamed. "Well, it was important," she says. "The ghost was killing kids."

"Is it gone?" Jacob asks, though inside he feels like screaming.

William nods and raises his glass. "To Deborah, the best witch of Pontiac, Illinois," he intones. Jacob swallows the wine and it feels like ash pouring down his throat.

"I'm pretty sure I'm the only witch in Pontiac," Deborah says, clinking her glass against his. "At least not enough of us to unionize."

"Don't even joke about that," William says, grinning. "Witches are scary on principle, I wouldn't want to go against a union."

Jacob refuses to drink more. He sits on the couch watching and feeling the cold ripples of fear ruffle his skin and flow through to his heart. The casual indifference with which Deborah just referred to herself as a witch makes his breath catch. It is wrong on so many levels, and not just because the Bible says so. This wasn't supposed to happen to her, not to them. When he went on the quest to find out about what happened, he didn't mean to invite it in; he didn't think he was opening the door wide and offering tea and cookies.

Though as things turned out, it was Deborah standing in the door offering tea and cookies.

"What is it that you do for money?" Deborah asks. "I'm sorry if that's insensitive, but it seems like the question to ask. You hang around Pontiac so much, and I don't think you have an actual job around here."

"I bartend," William says, helping himself a slice of angel cake. "At the Irish Pub downtown."

"That's an odd profession for a hunter."

"Not really. People say all kinds of things when they are smashed and have far less reservation about telling them to complete strangers. Of course, the friendly Irish bar hand is hardly a stranger, eh?" he drawls, wrapping his tongue around the Rs and pursing his lips so that the Os come out whistling. Jacob, if he had the sense to be objective, would be forced to agree with his assessment. Back before he and Deborah were married it was the guy at the student union bar who'd known all about their relationship problems.

Deborah laughs and Jacob slides lower down the couch. "That must be useful."

"You wouldn't believe how useful it can be, when you investigate something long-term. It was a guy in the bar that pointed out the Frommiches' luck to me in the first place."

"Right. Tell me, William, you're the kind of guy who appreciates honesty, right?"

"Depends. I can tell in this instance I'm going to regret it."

"You have a vernacular that says quite distinctively 'I've been schooled in literature and I have the diploma to prove it,' so you can imagine my curiosity is piqued."

"Bartenders do read," William tells her, eyebrows raised. "We have to get through the mornings somehow."

"And therapists are tenacious buggers," Deborah counters.

"Fair to say. I do indeed have a degree and it is a degree in the literary arts. My thesis was on the representation of the supernatural in the works of Sophocles, ironically enough."

"And yet here you are, in the outskirts of the civilized world, hunting things that go bump."

"Life sends us in all kinds of directions, Deborah. Often unexpected. Though really, Pontiac isn't that far off, as far as civilization is concerned. I've been in worse places."

Deborah shakes her head. "What did you do before you became a hunter?" she asks.

"I was a history teacher, actually."

Deborah's eyes widen and Jacob knows his do too. "School teacher, seriously?"

"Would I lie to you?"

"So you taught kids. I wouldn't have figured that." Deborah looks at William, curiosity evident in her expression. "Schoolteachers I found to be mostly harmless, usually, and there you go, hunting, breaking into homes, threatening people."

"Obviously you've never submitted homework late. We can be vicious."

"I'm not sure I want to know."

"Life, again. Sometimes things happen and there's just nothing you can do about it." William's tone is wistful. Jacob can see the question forming on the tip of Deborah's tongue, but she swallows it for the time being.

Later, when William leaves, he stays in his chair, watching the play of light on the ceiling. "You like this," he says when Deborah settles herself on the couch with a cup of coffee.

"Like what?"

"Hunting," Jacob says.

"I don't know," Deborah shrugs. "The opera ghost was nothing but amusing, but it had the potential to go south really fast, if it was either of us it wanted."

"It nearly killed me," Jacob admits.

"Ah, dramatize," Deborah laughs. "We were there to stop it."

"It was here," Jacob says. His voice is so low it's almost inaudible yet Deborah hears, as evidenced by the sudden silence.

"What?" she says, her eyes opened wide. "What do you mean here?"

"After I came back with Rachel," Jacob says. "I went to bed and when I woke up the ghost was here."

"You might have dreamt it," Deborah says, though she doesn't believe her own words. "Are you sure?"

"Yes." Jacob stares at the wall, his fingers digging into the armrests. "It came here and it made me try and kill myself." He almost feels guilty when Deborah's face turns white. Almost. "He didn't actually do anything, but it made so much sense then, that I didn't deserve to be alive."

"Jesus Christ," Deborah whispers, still unable to move.

"You burned it just in time."

"Jesus," she repeats. "Holy mother of God. I didn't know. I had no idea."

"It's okay," Jacob says, now concerned. "I know. It's okay."

"It's not okay!" Deborah presses her hand against her mouth and breathes. "I thought it was fun," she says eventually and her voice is broken and small. "I thought it was just for fun. I didn't realize- I didn't know!"

Jacob blinks and just looks at her for a moment, because he is not sure how to react. He gets up and wraps his arms around Deborah's shaking shoulders. "Hey," he says into her ear. "It's okay. Nothing happened. I didn't even have time to get out of bed."

"He could have killed you."

"He didn't. You saved my life," Jacob says. Her arm is shaking under his palm and she clings to him, like the warmth of his body comforts her.

"I'm so sorry," she says again.

"Nothing happened," Jacob says again. "Nothing happened."

Deborah stills underneath his hands and then sits up. "We stopped it," she says, her eyes fastened to Jacob's face. He nods, uncertain as to her state of mind. "We stopped the ghost. Which means the thing that killed Tim can also be killed, before it kills anyone else."

"Yes," Jacob replies, puzzled.

Deborah puts her feet on the floor and rests her elbows on her knees. "I can do this," she says out of the blue.

"What?"

"The whole superhero by night thing. It's not as hard as it looks."

Jacob looks at her as though she'd lost her mind. "You want to become a hunter?"

"Someone has to do it, and it's not like there's a secret division of the government picking up the slack, right?"

"But why you?"

"I'm here and I know what I'm doing, William says that's more than enough."

"William says?" Jacob feels a stab of irrational anger. "So suddenly he is the prime authority on how to live your life?" Deborah, bless her, doesn't register the anger, lost in her own thoughts.

"I looked through the news online, the other day," she says her voice dreamy and faraway. "Do you have any idea how many people have died over the years?"

"A lot, or we'd be even more overcrowded."

"I mean, I was reading those books and there are so many creatures that harm people. It didn't even register before."

"Okay, if you want to go into hunting, that's fine," Jacob says, thinking that no way he was okay with that and that it was anything but fine, but if Debbie really wanted to, he wasn't going to stand in her way. "I'm just wondering, if it's a latent let's save people thing, or is it something… else."

Deborah looks at him, uncomprehending. "Something else?"

"William," Jacob blurts, knowing before his mouth closes he's made a huge mistake.

Deborah stares at him for a few seconds, uncertain whether he is joking and Jacob can see she dearly hopes that is the case. "Are you insane?" Deborah asks finally, still staring him in the face. She is angry, and well. Jacob is familiar with the adage about Hell's fury having nothing on scorned women, but Deborah is something special. No one in their right mind wants her angry, especially not Jacob.

"No. Deb, I'm sorry…"

"No, you're not," she hisses. "You're not sorry." Jacob tries to open his mouth and say something, but she is immediately there, slapping her palm over his mouth so hard it stings. "I have never looked at anyone else since we got together. Never, not once. I love you, even when you are being a fucking moron." She steps away. "And you don't trust me."

"I trust you."

"Like hell you do. You think I'm going to fuck the first guy that comes along, if I like him enough."

"No, it's not that."

"Not that? Then what is it! For God's sake, Jacob. Men look at me. I'm attractive. Women look at you, and you don't have a problem with that!"

"I didn't mean it like this."

"You did." Deborah is quiet now and there is a world of hurt in her voice. "That's exactly how you meant it. Someone looks at me, not even out of genuine interest, someone whose company I enjoy, and you flip out and now it's supposed to be okay?"

"I know you don't…"

"No," Deborah says and raises her head, there is a twist to her mouth, one that's as sad as it is cruel. "You don't. But you think it. It's in the back of your mind, isn't it? Deborah and William, gallivanting off to God alone knows where. And who knows what they do, in between research."

Jacob sits down on the couch, hiding his face in his hands. "Please," he says weakly. "Stop."

"You think I'm enjoying this? Knowing exactly how much you don't trust me?"

"I do!"

"The hell you do! If you trusted me, you wouldn't have thought I was screwing around behind your back!"

"Debbie," he reaches out for her, but his hand falls short. Deborah is stepping back out of his range and his knees are shaking too bad to support him right now.

"I need to be alone," she says and reaches for her coat.

"Don't go," he pleads, terrified. That is every fear he's ever had, rolled up into one. Deborah is leaving and he cannot stop her.

"I will be back, idiot," she says, rolling her eyes. "However stupid you get, I love you. I married you, if nothing else gets through your thick skull. I swore I would never abandon you. I just need to not look at you," she says and it hurts more than anything Jacob could possibly imagine. "For an hour or two."

The door slams and he digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. What has he done? "I am a moron," he tells the ceiling. His chest is heavy and frankly he could weep, except he feels more like laughing hysterically. He's made more sense in his life he knows. He hopes he has, because if that's what he's been like all this time, Deborah deserves a speedy elevation to sainthood for putting up with him.

Jacob gets off the couch and heads to the bathroom. He splashes cold water onto his face, trying to at least force his facial muscles into the usual look. William will know something is wrong the moment he looks at him, he has a knack for seeing his state of mind. He looks into the mirror and groans. And back to William it is. His life just couldn't get any more frustrating at the moment. "Yes, it could," he tells his reflection. And it is true. He is just having trouble with the how.

He feeds Rachel, grateful she's outgrown the phase of spilling her food on anything in range. She looks at him through her pretty blue eyes and he wonders if she knows how much of a moron he's just been. He hopes not. A few years from now she's supposed to get to the worshipping the ground her father walks on stage, and it would be really bad if she were to miss out on the experience because she remembers what an idiot he can be. Jacob smiles to himself as he watches Rachel eat. It's his duty as a parent to maintain the dad is awesome façade, until she is in her teens and he is an old man who doesn't understand anything under the sun.

Deborah returns around eleven, smelling of cigarettes. She looks calmer now, as though the excursion helped her clear her head. She doesn't send him to the couch straight away, which is a good start. She kisses Jacob goodnight and there is a hint of liquor on her lips. Her steps are steady though, which is a huge relief. She's not drunk and she isn't angry anymore. Jacob takes it as a sign of God looking out for his marital life.

"I'm really sorry," he says turning towards her and they lie next to each other, unwilling to let God shoulder all the responsibility for fixing things.

"I know." She looks at the ceiling. "Jacob, if I ever don't love you anymore, if I ever think about cheating, if – and I mean it as in if there is the end of the world looming in the corner – you are no longer enough, I swear to God, you will be the first person I tell. Is that clear?"

"I know that," he answers, though there is a stab of fear accompanying it. "I always knew. It's just… I can see you like it." It hurts like hell to admit, but he does it anyway. "The hunting. And no matter what I do, I just can't do it. It scares me." It scares him that he cannot stand against a ghost and be able to move, or think straight, or even breathe freely. It scares him that he is no help at all.

"Honey, did you pause to think about that maybe it's the hunting part that I like, and William has little to do with it?"

"I tried. Yes. I mean I think so. But he's pretty attractive, you have to admit that."

"Yes, he wears his scars in a way that's pretty appealing. Even his age counts in his favor. Vintage. Good year," Deborah says, grinning. "You noticed. Shouldn't I be worried you'll run off with him into the sunset?"

Jacob snorts into his pillow. "I'm sorry," he muffles into the fabric when the spell of laughter is gone. Moments later he feels Deborah's hand on the small of his back and the warmth of her against his side.

"I know."

He falls asleep with her hand stroking his hair. He's not yet forgiven. He's not sure he deserves to be forgiven just yet, but he will try and earn it just the same.

**TBC**


	8. Chapter 8

**September 2008**

Things get easier. Jacob cannot say Deborah's time alone with William is one hundred percent comfortable, but he is no longer spending the time they are away staring at the wall with lewd pictures at the forefront of his mind. Not usually, anyway. Not every minute of every day.

"How did it go?" he asks when Deborah walks in through the door on Monday morning, tired and bone-weary, but grinning.

"Trust me when I say ghosts are bitches."

"I believe you," Jacob says dutifully pouring her a cup of coffee.

"Oh, thank you," she says and inhales deeply. "Mm, that smells amazing."

"New coffee," Jacob says stifling a yawn. Seven a.m. on a Monday morning isn't his favorite part of the week.

"I'm gonna grab a shower, I have a patient at nine sharp." Deborah tops the coffee off with milk and finishes it in one gulp.

"Are you okay to go? You only just got here."

"Didn't you get the memo? I'm a superhero now. I need no sleep." She smiles at him and salutes over the cup.

"You tell yourself that enough times and you might just believe it," Jacob warns. "And then you're going to fall asleep at fifty mile per hour on your way home and that just cannot end well."

"No probably not," Deborah leans in for a kiss. "I promise I'll call a cab today and go straight to bed when I get home."

Jacob laughs and shakes his head. "Do you want breakfast?"

"Just toast, thanks." Deborah turns towards the stairs but returns to the kitchen a minute later. "I forgot. William will be around on Friday."

"Not another hunt?"

"I don't know. It could be. Said it is important."

Jacob nods and drops bread into the toaster. Rachel waves her hands when the machine pings. "Toast?" she says, her mouth curled into a pout.

"Do you want anything on it?" Jacob asks.

"Jam!"

Jacob groans internally. Rachel managed to handle eating okay, but jam inspired her to create modern art using jam and her shirt as the medium.

"Are you sure?" he asks. "Can't I just butter it?"

"Jam," Rachel insists, hitting the table with her fists. Jacob looks at the clock and sighs. His best excuse, that is the lack of time, goes out the window. He gives in and spreads jam all over the toast. Then, in a flash of genius, he cuts it into tiny pieces.

"Okay," he says, "You can have jam. But I really don't want to wash you again, so I'm just going to feed you."

It is sad how very whipped he is. The realization occurs three bites in, when Rachel's nose scrunches and she refuses to eat any more. "I need to grow a backbone, don't I?" he says, looking his daughter in the eye. Rachel giggles, which is her way of agreeing. Jacob finishes her toast and pours himself another cup of coffee. He doesn't sleep well on the nights Deborah is off superheroing. It's just not comfortable. He's lucky someone invented coffee long before his time, it is the only thing that gets him through those days.

"Hey," Deborah says as she walks into the kitchen, wet towel in her hair. "Can I have another coffee now?"

Jacob mostly remembers this Monday as a long string of one coffee cup after another. Some of them are decent, like the instant he fixes at home, splashed with milk. Some are just colored water with the faint aftertaste of soy milk, because Nancy started believing in healthy eating and conveniently forgot to buy normal milk. Jacob finds that while normally he doesn't care much, on that Monday he is ready to join a crusade against this concoction pretending to be a substitute. As far as his coffee is concerned, milk, which didn't pass through the udders of a cow, is no milk.

"Sorry, Mr Lake," Nancy says. She is wearing a linen shirt and a hand-knit sweater. She looks like a redheaded shepherd girl, which is all kinds of cute, but all Jacob can focus on is the milk substitute.

"I didn't mean to yell, Nancy. I just really don't like soy milk," Jacob says, because he doesn't want to hurt her feelings. She means no harm, after all.

"It will never happen again," Nancy says and bares her teeth in a wide grin. Jacob smiles back and helps himself to an oatmeal cookie.

"Now these I like," he says and Nancy grins even wider.

"Thank you!"

Thankfully, the Mondays are usually the low point of his weeks. By the time Friday rolls around Jacob is strangely refreshed and full of energy. Deborah is already home by the time he gets back and he is surprised to see William is too.

"Good afternoon," Jacob says. "Where's Rachel?"

"I left her at Mrs Mone's," Deborah says. "William said he has something important to say."

"Important enough that Rachel shouldn't hear?" Jacob hangs his coat by the door and returns to the living room.

Deborah shrugs and looks out the window. "I think a storm might be coming," she says.

"Yeah," William says and approaches the window. "It might."

Next thing Jacob knows Deborah screams, her voice high and loud. She's in pain, he realizes. Along with the realization comes the disgust with himself that it took him this long. William is standing over her, with his flask in hand, and she writhes before him on the floor, smoke rising from her face and hair.

"What did you do?" Jacob screams, taking a step forward. It's no use though. His legs won't carry him.

"Stay where you are," William says holding his hand up. "She's possessed."

"She's…" Jacob feels acutely as his world tilts and spills on the floor of the universe, sending him sprawling into the abyss. "She can't be possessed!"

"Jacob, shut up and help me. Get some paint, and rope. We need a devil's trap."

"But Deborah--"

"Do it now!" William screams, and Jacob turns and walks into the table. "Get my bag, everything is in there."

Grunting in pain Jacob keeps moving to the kitchen, where William dropped his bag. There is a can of paint in it. Red paint, Jacob can't help but notice. He digs deeper and comes up with a book with a pattern he recognizes on the cover. He returns to the living room and, with some effort pulls the carpet aside. It's not easy, because his hands are shaking, and his legs and dragging and he has tears in his eyes and he just wants the world to stop spinning and start making sense again. Please.

"Hurry up, for fuck's sake," William screams again, and Jacob all but lands on the floor, face first. His hands shake so bad he needs to repaint the sigils and then add bits to the circle, to make sure it is whole. "Jesus Christ, seriously." William hauls Deborah into the trap by the hair, dousing her with holy water and Jacob feels every scream echo within his chest and reverberate throughout his body. This is Debbie, he wants to scream, this is my Debbie, not some demon! But no word leaves his mouth.

He isn't sure it can. William pulls Deborah up and into the chair, working fast, tying her hands to the armrests, her feet to the legs.

"Get more holy water," he snaps at Jacob.

"There's no more," Jacob whispers. Nothing louder can make it out and he is certain he doesn't make a sound. His throat is so tight. William seems to understand, however, whether by the comment or the mental catalogue of his equipment.

"Then make some."

"I don't know how."

"It's not rocket science, get a container of water, say a prayer, simple enough. Drop a rosary inside, a crucifix, whatever."

Another time Jacob would protest, perhaps. This isn't easy to comprehend, isn't easy to do. Now he's too numb. He wanders into the kitchen, without walking into furniture this time, and finds a two-gallon bottle. He stares at it for a few moments, helpless and confused. Then he pulls his rosary out of his pocket and holds it over the bottle's neck. "In the Name of the Father the Son and the Holy Ghost," he mouths, because he has no strength to let the words out, "Please Lord bless this water," he says stupidly, not certain what is needed, how much holy is holy enough.

The rosary falls into the plastic container without a splash. Jacob keeps watching, expecting something to happen. Perhaps the water should boil; maybe it should shine with divine light to signify the process of sanctifying is complete. Nothing happens.

"Jacob!" William screams from the other room and he hurries back, the rosary clicking as the liquid in the bottle sloshes from side to side. "Good." William turns to Deborah and doses her in holy water. She screams and Jacob takes a step back, clutching at his chest.

It isn't Deborah. The face is hers and the eyes are hers, but it isn't her. It cannot be, not that angry visage twisted with fury and hatred.

"Who are you?" William asks, his voice hard and unyielding.

Deborah's lips curve in a seductive little smile. "Don't you know?"

William throws holy water in her face and she howls in pain. "Who are you, bitch? What do you want?"

"On thing at a time, sweetheart," the demon in Deborah's body replies, grinning widely. "One thing at a time."

"What are you doing here?"

"Are you kidding? Have you been to Hell? We'd do anything to get out."

"But why come here?" Jacob says, his voice still barely audible. The demon smiles at him, the sweet smile Deborah used to wear when they would lay in bed on the rare mornings the kids would sleep in. Except the demon doesn't get it quite right. There a tilt to it that belies everything that smile was, everything it meant to Jacob. Because now it mocks him, when it used to tell him Deborah loves him. "Why?"

"Because it always fun to watch," the demon replies, moving Deborah's lips. "It's always, always fun, watching you go on, unaware, that it is not your wife anymore, that it's just her meatsuit wandering the house, playing with the cute little antichrist. And in the end it takes a perfect stranger to recognize what's been in front of you the whole time…" She grins and Jacob feels ill.

"How long were you here?" William asks, and until now Jacob has never realized that a bottle of tap water could be brandished like it was a threat.

"I don't know. A day? A week?" The grin turns evil and Deborah's eyes cloud over with blackness. "A year," the thing behind her tanned skin and pink lips says. "Do you know how much fun it was, fucking you? No matter how old you get, doing good Catholic boys just never, ever gets old. And it is so sad to see you wasted on one girl. Sure, you're pretty boring, but the things I could teach you…" She licks her lips and Jacob's eyes widen painfully. It wasn't possible.

"Don't listen to her," William hisses. He bends to the floor to retrieve the book fallen from Jacob's grasp. "She's a demon, demons lie."

"Do I lie? Look at me, Jimmy," Deborah says and she is so very perfectly Deborah again it hurts to breathe, but he doesn't raise his eyes. "Look at me," the demon says forcefully and he can't help but look up, into the pale blue eyes of his wife. "You knew," the demon says, sweet and loveable. "Every time you were in me, you knew I wasn't your wife. But I was better than she was, so you said nothing. You let me pretend, because the truth is, you liked me better."

"Shut the fuck up!" William roars, pouring half the contents of the bottle onto Deborah's head. He drops the container on the ground while she screams and picks up the book. He starts reading, Jacob knows the words are Latin – he never studied it, but he used to sit with Deborah and quiz her on the conjugation and declination, some of which stuck. He is far from understanding what is said, exactly, but he knows enough to know an exorcism when he hears one. William reads and Deborah starts trashing and howling and Jacob feels a cry tear from his own chest because she is hurting, his beloved wife is hurting and there's nothing he can do.

Then he realizes she is laughing, laughing hysterically, and that sound is enough to give William pause. "You think you can save her, pretty little boy," the demon says. Her head is bowed and she is looking at him through narrowed eyes, and they are black again, not blue. "You think everything will be alright again." The demon grins wider and snaps Deborah's head to the side hard and fast and Jacobs hears the crunch echo throughout the room.

He throws himself forward before he can think about it, and if it weren't for William grabbing him around the waist he's have had his arms around Deborah now. He curses at the hunter and fights, but the man is heavier and stronger, and more experienced. He throws Jacobs into the corner of the room with ease and Jacob cannot find the strength within himself to get back up again.

"Here's one you are not gonna save," the demon sings, mindless of the broken neck of the mortal its inhabiting, and laughs again. "But then again, that happens to you a lot, doesn't it? You'd think you'd be used to it by now. You couldn't save your son, you sold your daughter… And now you watch your wife die. How sad… I think I actually might cry."

William returns to the chant and Jacob watches as Deborah once more starts convulsing. He can't tell how much of it is her and how much his shaking contributes; there are tears in his eyes, the room is blurry and for a moment he isn't sure whether he's looking at Deborah or William or the couch, because it's all a blur and the Earth keeps spinning and he is falling down the rabbit hole and there is no one to catch him.

"Deb," he whispers just as the demon lets out a final keening wail and leaves Deborah's body in a cloud of black smoke. He staggers onto his feet and at the same time stays in the corner and he wonders what's going on – he is watching himself walk to Deborah, untying the ropes binding her to the chair, he watches himself wrap his arms around her body and rock like a frightened child, and at the same time he is there, he feels Deborah in his arms and she is still warm, but she isn't breathing, her eyes are open and empty and vacant and she isn't breathing and the warmth is seeping out of her and he is rocking like a child and nothing makes sense anymore. "Debbie," he says and the sensations melt into one. He realizes he is kneeling within the devil's trap, holding Deborah in his arms. He realizes his face is wet with tears and he can barely hear anything, his heart is pumping so wild and his breath is wheezing like a freight train.

Slowly, with each breath, other sensations return, one by one. He is keenly aware of the pain in his legs, he is sitting on his haunches on a hardwood floor, and his muscles are protesting. He is aware of the coolness of the floor. He is aware of the draft, the faint stream of air, cold against his wet cheeks.

Deborah is limp in his arms and Jacob can't feel anything else.

He doesn't know, he realizes with pain that is sharp and all consuming like being hit by a truck and trapped in a totaled car. His soul feels like it's crushed by the sudden thought. He will never know how long was she possessed. It might have been a year even, like the demon said. It might have been there for ages before William noticed, warping their life, warping everything they had.

"Jacob," William is saying and Jacob realizes there is a hand on his shoulder, squeezing. He realizes it would be painful any other time. It will be painful in a few seconds, even. "Jacob." But right now, it's far less than the pressure of Deborah's skin against his fingers.

"Go away," Jacob says.

"Jesus, man. I'm so sorry," William whispers and squeezes his shoulder tighter.

"Leave me alone." If the words actually make it out of his mouth, Jacob doesn't care.

William could bring in tangible proof of the Antichrist himself rising to power through a democratic vote of the denizens of the planet and Jacob still wouldn't care.

He hears the slap before he feels it and the world, for a brief moment, is dual again. He knows he's still on the floor with Deborah's body in his arms, and yet he is watching William raise his hand and strike him with an open palm, hard. He hears the slap and sees the movement, but it takes a moment for the pain to register. When it does the whole thing snaps into place again and his head is turned and his face stings. William is kneeling before him, his hands once again on his shoulders.

"I know you're in pain," he says, shaking Jacob. "But you have to pull yourself together."

"What for?" Jacob says and he feels like he's drunk though he knows he cannot be. But his thoughts are simple and vivid and one at a time and the progression is slurred and unhurried and the simple act of breathing hurts so damn much…

"Rachel, for one. You've got Rachel to think of."

"Rachel," Jacob whispers. The name means something, he's sure it does. Then it clicks and all the slowness of his thoughts is gone, because they are moving at light speed. "The demon – it said something. She said I sold my daughter, she said--"

"Don't think about it," William says firmly.

"But-"

"Not now." He pries Jacob's fingers from Deborah's body and carries it to the couch. "We need to figure out what to do," he says. "She has family and friends and a job, people will miss her when she's gone."

"I'm her family."

"I know. I meant the civilians."

"I am a civilian."

"Not that kind of a civilian, Jacob, for fuck's sake. I mean all the other people who had no idea what we were up to! If we report this one, or both, of us could go to jail."

Jacob raises his head and looks at William. "What? But we didn't do anything, we tried to save her!"

The hunter takes a deep breath and walks out of the room. When he returns he is carrying a bottle of scotch and a shot glass. He fills it to the brim and offers it to Jacob. "Drink it. I don't give a fuck if you're teetotal, you will drink it." When Jacob doesn't move to accept, he puts the glass on the ground and grabs him by the throat. "Sorry about this," he says, digging his fingers into Jacob's jaw and tilting his head back. With his other hand he sloshes the liquid into Jacob's mouth, and covers it with his palm. For a second there Jacob is sure he will drown; the oxygen is scarce and the alcohol is burning his mouth and he can't breathe because this insane freak is holding a palm over his mouth. He swallows the scotch and William withdraws, a little, allowing him to gasp and sort out the breathing business.

"Now, think about it rationally" William says, as if he didn't almost drown Jacob in a shot glass of alcohol. "Deborah had her neck broken," and for a second Jacob hears nothing but the horrible crunch. His hands shake and his jaw quivers, but the alcohol is doing its job and the warmth soothes the worst of it and he can focus on what William is saying. "She didn't fall, she wasn't hit with anything heavy enough to explain the break. The only way to explain how she could die like this, is if someone took her head in their hands and twisted."

Jacob stands up unsteadily, holding up his palm to silence William. He walks to the bathroom and throws up everything, including his own sanity, into the clean porcelain bowl. When he straightens, rinses his mouth and returns to the living room William is still kneeling on the floor. "Scotch?" the hunter asks and this time Jacob takes the glass. He knocks it back in one gulp and drops to the floor.

"What do we do?" he asks and his eyes are feverish and bright.

"We need to leave," William says and his words are terrible and final.

"Leave?"

"We are facing the first degree here, this kind of injury would never be attributed to an accident. First-degree murder of your own wife, at that. Even if you could be exonerated, which even with competent lawyers would be hard, I wouldn't. I can't have anything to do with the police," William says and his voice is urgent.

"Then go," Jacob says and the words are slow and everything else is perfectly clear. "Leave. I'll be fine."

"Like hell you will," William says and Jacob sees his eyes rolling before he even raises his own. "You have a child to think of here."

"Rachel," Jacob mutters and stares William in the eye. "What did she mean when she said I sold Rachel?" Except William can't quite meet his gaze and Jacob knows the demon wasn't lying, not about this. He knows that William knows and at this point he needs to know. He needs to know every last detail.

"I was looking into your family history," William admits, "As part of the research. Your father had a near miraculous recovery, ten years ago."

"I know, I was at the hospital then. The doctors said the cancer had retreated, something about the treatment finally working."

"Which happens once per million cases," William interjects. "It wasn't instantaneous, though, I wasn't sure, I didn't want to ask before I had something more concrete to base it on. But Jacob, it'd been ten years, not to the day, but close, before the fire in your house."

"What are you saying?"

"I think you made a deal," William says and Jacob gapes at him.

Everything he has heard about making deals with demons whirrs through his mind. "You think I sold my soul for my dad's life? I think I would have remembered making that sort of a deal!"

"No, if it were your soul you would have been dead on the tenth anniversary. Contracts with demons come due exactly."

"Then what?"

"I don't know. Think about it – June 1996, did anyone talk to you? When your father was in the hospital? Offered you anything with a time limit?"

Jacob frowns and stares at the floor. First thing popping into his head is green. Sickly green, the color of walls of the hospital just outside Chicago where his father was admitted for the surgery. He recalls the hard plastic chairs, the smell of antiseptic and formaldehyde trailing after a nurse. The nauseating stench of sickness and pain and death clinging to every surface and, inexplicably, overlaying them all is a thin veneer of smoke.

"Dennis," he says finally, and the face takes shape, dredged from the depths of his memory. "Dennis Garlain. He was a friend in high school but I'd barely seen him since. He was there when my father went into surgery."

"What did you talk about?"

"He was high, I remember that. He said he'd been smoking weed. He asked if I wanted my father to be okay," Jacob raises his head and stares, unseeing at the window. He barely notices how William's face becomes grim.

"Fuck," William says and rubs his face. "This doesn't sound like any demon I heard of," he admits. "Normally they're quite happy to say you can have everything you want, for ten years and then they come for your soul."

"It was just Dennis," Jacob insists. "He's always been weird."

"Now's not the time for denial. Did he say anything else?"

"He said something about needing something, in ten years."

"Did anything happen around that time? Accidents, bizarre deaths?"

"It's mostly been quiet. Except for the weather."

"What about the weather?" William asks and he is more agitated than ever.

"Temperature couldn't settle or something. I walked into the hospital in a t-shirt and nearly froze on my way out. It'd been stormy." The more his says, the quieter his voice grown. "The same thing happened right before the fire," he realizes and looks William straight in the eye. "There were storms and temperature went wild."

The hunter nods grimly. "It could have been a demon."

"But there's been nothing of that sort recently here and," his voice dies before he can say anything about Deborah. "Nothing. I would have noticed, I usually get the weather-related cases."

"There's more than one demon in Hell," William says, "And some of them are bigger than the others."

"You think it was a demon. You think I sold my daughter to a demon, like this thing said."

"I don't know. It's not enough to say for sure, demons usually aren't that covert. Usually the deal is clean cut. Date-wise too. When exactly did you talk to this Dennis?"

"26th of June, 1996. The night my dad went into surgery."

"And the fire happened on the 29th. Shit. You don't remember anyone else? Their eyes would be really weird, like completely red."

Jacob shakes his head. "No."

"What would it want?" William says to himself.

"What did it do?" Jacob asks, frantic despite himself. He could understand a demon making a deal for his soul, that was what demons did, wasn't it? No one came for his soul. No one even came close. The only thing that happened was his son dying in a fire, and now Deborah and- oh God.

"Man, and I thought the Winchesters had it bad." Jacob heard William say out loud.

"Winchesters?"

"Couple of hunters, brothers. Lost their mother, their dad trained them to be superheroes." Jacob wondered if the awe in William's voice was intentional. "They were really good."

"Were?"

William hesitated. "The word is, the older sold his soul for his brother's life and only got a year of time. He's been dead a while now. Ripped apart by hellhounds."

Jacob stands up and walks to the couch. Deborah is still and paler now, the warmth seeps out of her body rapidly. "What am I gonna do?" he asks no one in particular.

"Don't even think about it," William says.

"I can't just leave her like this."

"Let's get your daughter," William says out of the blue. "She's with Mrs Mone, right? I'll go with you."

Jacob leans against the couch, his fingers tangled in Deborah's hair. How could it come to this? He never wanted this. Not for one minute. Her body already colder than a human body should be. Jacob takes a shuddering breath and then there are hands on his shoulders again, pulling him away from the couch and in the direction of the front door.

"We're going to get Rachel," William says, forcing Jacob's arms into the sleeves of his trench coat. "And you will pull yourself together, because right now we cannot afford you to lose it."

Mrs Mone lives only a few blocks away. Jacob allows William to set the pace, even though he struggles to keep up. He is better off not thinking. He tries to impose normality on himself as if it were something that could be called on and off. They reach the front door of the Mone's abode faster than he'd have liked, certainly in less time than he needed, which was approximately ten years. He's not feeling well. William knocks and Jacob hides behind his broad shoulder, knowing the hunter can lie convincingly enough about anything he chooses. He should be able to explain his condition with ease. Sure enough, when Mrs Mone answers the door William is charming and polite and with an explanation for the world's steady spin.

"Afternoon, ma'am," he says. "Sorry, I had to drag Jacob over here, he isn't feeling well, probably the same bug Deborah has, and I wasn't sure how would Rachel feel about my coming alone."

"Of course, honey," Mrs Mone says, her mouth twitching upwards. "Step right in, Rachel is in the living room."

William smiles and nods and yes ma'am, he'd love a cup of tea, but Jacob should really get to bed and follows her into the room, Jacob in tow. The house smells of old dust, and everything – if Jacob had a keen enough nose he would have been able to scent the faint wisps of meals made a long time ago, all the Thanksgivings, the Christmases and the Easters. He would have been able to smell the shades of people who visited and brought with them pieces of the outside world, the flowers, the pies and the fruit.

If Jacob were concentrating enough, he would have been able to smell the blood.

Rachel is sitting in the middle of the room, half hidden by the couch, playing with some building blocks. Jacob steps from behind William her name rising from his throat, but it dies on his lips when he is far enough into the room so that the couch is no longer in the way of his vision. The blocks are hovering in the air, and Rachel, her small face focused, is holding them there. Beyond her, on the floor, Mr Mone is prostrated on the floor, unmoving, in a pool of blood.

"I was almost ready to leave," Mrs Mone says behind him. Jacob hears a choke and a dull thump and when he turns William is crumpled on the ground, a handle of a kitchen knife protruding from his back. Jacob stumbles onto the couch and falls, right next to Rachel.

"Daddy!" she says happily and the blocks tumble to the ground as the little girl clambers onto his lap to give him a hug. "Blocks, see?"

"Yes, Jacob, did you see?" Mrs Mone is looking at him a smile playing at her lips. Her eyes cloud with blackness and he lets out a gurgled sound of protest. "Little Rachel is a very good student, soon she'll be strong enough to take on Lilith and the Winchester boy and win. That's right, darling," Mrs Mone croons.

"Build castles, daddy," Rachel says, smiling. Jacob is watching, her unable to speak.

Jacob can't help but stare as the blocks roll towards the middle of the room and onto one another. Rachel is squinting and holding her palm out in their direction and she's still smiling. Then she turns to face him, looking so proud and happy with herself, eager for his approval. The look on his face must worry her, though, because her bottom lip starts to quiver.

"Daddy? No like?"

"You daddy doesn't understand, darling," Mrs Mone says gently. "You daddy doesn't like people who can do special things."

Rachel looks frightened now and she steps away from him and Jacob is entirely too shocked to even consider protesting. "You killed William," he whispers. "You killed Mr Mone…"

"Oh, I killed Mrs Mone too," Mrs Mone says. "The poor dear ingested so many sleeping pills, there's no hope she'll wake up ever again."

"Why?"

"Ah, dear boy. Rachel is all worth it. The Winchester boy refused to be our savior, but your little girl will do just fine. She is young and she is talented and when I'm done training her, she will be ready to take on anyone."

"You killed Deborah!"

"Ah, no. That wasn't me. Silly goose was too enthusiastic, but you know how kids are. It's all about the thrill of the chase with them. I suppose you exorcised her? I knew she was too hotheaded. Me, I know how to bid my time, even if it is a little earlier than I expected. It doesn't hurt none, I've got to say. Sadly, Lilith too has me hurried, with her silly schemes."

"Are you going to kill me?" Jacob asks.

"Why would I kill you?" Mrs Mone laughs, stepping forward to pick Rachel up.

"You killed William."

"He is dangerous," the elderly lady moves her lips and the demon speaks through her. "He is a hunter and he could be a serious wrench in my plans. You, on the other hand…" She leans over Jacob and presses her mouth against his. Jacob feels the tip of her tongue against his lips and he recoils violently, while she laughs. "You are so much more amusing alive than dead. You see all this?" she gestures with her hand to the room, to the bodies of Mr Mone and William and the building blocks. "Do you know why this all happened? Because twelve years ago you made a deal. You chose the life of your father over the lives of your family."

"I didn't…"

"You gave Azazel permission to enter your house and give his gift to this one," Mrs Mone says and there is nothing pleasant or comforting about the look on her face. The wrinkles twist around her features, forming a sinister and angry mask. "All to spare yourself the pain of seeing your father die before you graduated. I bet he'll be very proud."

Jacob feels his heart hammering and he feels a whimper escape his mouth. "Kill me," he says, but Mrs Mone pays him no mind.

"You know, I think I might visit your father. I might tell him what a great person you have grown up to be, killing your pretty wife, your friends… I might mention how the police officer said a triple homicide might send you straight to the electric chair… Wait, I lie." She pauses an in a very theatrical gesture covers her mouth. "Does Illinois offer electric chairs? Still, you might get lucky, if you mumble loud enough about the big bad demons, who took your family from you. You wouldn't be the first, you know." Mrs Mone smiles at him, cradling Rachel on her hip. "But I blabbered on enough. Time to go," she says.

"No," Jacob calls. "Rachel…"

"Oh, honey, don't you worry. Rachel will grow up tall and strong, and she will be beautiful like you can only imagine. You will see. Or perhaps, if you're lucky enough, you won't." Mrs Mone smiles again and turns her back to him.

Jacob forces himself to stand and lunge after her, but she is expecting him because suddenly he is flying across the room and hitting the wall with his back. "Rachel," he whispers, but the wind has been knocked out of him and his voice doesn't rise high enough to even escape his mouth. "Rachel."

"Goodbye, Jacob. I'll make sure the police don't take long to arrive," are the last words he hears, before the doors close and he is sitting on the floor of the living room in the Mones' house, with two corpses for company. William's eyes are still open, staring at him from where he lies, in a puddle of blood that creeps towards the carpet. The metallic smell of it sticks to every surface it sticks to Jacob's clothes. It's so thick in the air that he wonders how on earth could he have missed it when he first walked in.

Jacob closes his eyes and gives up.

"In the Name of the Father and the Son and Holy Ghost," he hears and it takes a few moments to realize it is his own voice, quiet and weak, but unwavering. "Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed by thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil," he whispers earnestly. "Deliver us from evil, for thine is the kingdom, and the power and the glory, forever and ever.

"Please," he says louder. "Our Father, who art in Heaven. Please," he whispers again. "I'll do anything." He stares at the door, trying in vain to envision the cross, which hangs in his home in that spot. What is he supposed to do? Rachel is gone, taken by a demon, Deborah is gone and William is gone, and it is all his fault…

"I beg you," he whispers. The demon possessing Deborah was bad enough; to see it twist his wife's face was unbearable. But knowing another of those things, another thing that was pure evil had his little girl, he felt as though his heart was being ripped out and torn into pieces. He doesn't even have strength in his arms to reach for his rosary, but he tries nonetheless, until he remembers that he's dropped it into the bottle back when William asked him to bless the water. He has nothing. "Unto thee, oh Lord, do I lift up my soul," he hears and finds that his mouth is shaping the words even without his head knowing. The psalm he didn't realize he knew by heart is stark in his memory, clear as the day he remembers his father reading it to him for the first time. "Oh my God, I trust in thee: let me not be ashamed, let not mine enemies triumph over me."

His hands are numb, he finds, and the numbness spreads throughout his body, even as his lips whisper the words of the psalm. He keeps looking because that is the only thing he is capable of doing at the moment. He sees William, his face twisted to the side as he lies on the floor, a kitchen knife in his back. In the corner of his field of vision Mr Mone lies, the man he everyone knows as solemn, yet kind, who's been a permanent feature in the neighborhood for a long time, his throat cut with something sharp.

Jacob's head won't turn, even as more and more details he doesn't want to see come rushing in. The blood pooling on the floor. The building blocks, fallen and left where Rachel dropped them. All if it, everything, is too much for him. He can't look and yet he cannot force himself to close his eyes. This changes when he realizes there is light in the room, fiery white and blinding. Finally, struck by the brilliant white light, his eyes cooperate and he closes his them. He feels the burn against his skin and he hopes that the demon set the house on fire, because burning alive has to be better than living like this. The heat intensifies and right when he is sure he can no longer handle it, the physicality of the sensation just drops away and he can feel nothing more.

His eyes open and for a moment he sees nothing – he in encased in perfect darkness, except he can see himself. His hands are there, unchanged and unmarred by the fire, the coat, the suit, even the blue tie Anne has given him last Christmas. It's all there, but everything else isn't. It's like he is the only thing in the entire universe.

"Is this death?" he asks.

"No, it isn't," Jacob hears and he turns. He isn't afraid, for some reason, though if he were to be honest with himself that is because he is fairly certain there is nothing he has left to be afraid of. He turns and takes a step back. He is looking at himself, like he was looking into a mirror, except it cannot be a mirror, because the other him is not moving, just looking at him with a serene expression in his ancient eyes. "Hello, Jacob."

Yes, it is the eyes, Jacob decides. The color is the same but the other him just keeping looking, passive and understanding, as if the world held no mysteries for him. This is so radically different from how Jacob feels, now more than ever he has no doubts whatsoever that whatever mysteries human psyche holds, this one must have come from beyond. "Who are you?" he asks then.

"I'm an angel of the Lord," his reflection answers. "My name is Castiel." Something shimmers in the darkness behind him and Jacob can almost make out a pair of wings, spreading behind him. He takes a step back, swallowing.

"And this is…"

"I was forced to possess you," Castiel says. "I apologize, but there was no other way for us to talk at this time."

"What do you want with me?" Jacob asks.

"The use of your body," Castiel replies immediately and Jacob stares at him, astonished.

"That sounded so very wrong," he manages when his voice returns to him, but the angel doesn't seem to grasp the implication.

"It is imperative that I contact Dean Winchester."

"Winchester? As in the Antichrist Winchester?"

"No. The other one."

"The Christ Winchester?" Jacob whispers reverently after a short pause, but Castiel pays him little mind.

"He cannot perceive my true form and it is of utmost importance that I speak with him," the angel continues. His stare feels strange, like he knows the concept of seeing, but not the socially accepted standards of the intensity. Which is probably the exact truth, Jacob realizes. If this is an angel, he wouldn't know anything of human standards. He is intense and full of conviction and Jacob has to look away, because even though there seems to be no light looking at the angel hurts his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he says, "But right now I don't really care."

"In return I can give you what you want," Castiel says, as if there was no interruption.

"What? You mean, you'd make a deal?"

"Yes."

"Why are you even asking, if you're already possessing me?"

"I cannot guarantee your survival," Castiel looks apologetic. "I need a human vessel, but I cannot guarantee you will survive after my task is done and I am allowed to leave. I will not take you without your permission."

"What I want…" Jacob looks up, sharply. "Can you save Rachel?"

"Yes."

"Thank God," Jacob whispers reverently, then something else occurs to him. "Will she survive?"

Castiel looks thoughtful, which seems difficult when he still has no expression on his face. Jacob's face. "I can burn the demon blood out of her body, if that is your wish," he says, "Which will hurt her, but shouldn't be fatal."

"And she'll be fine?"

"She will be purged of the demonic influences, yes."

Jacob closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "Anne – Deborah's sister – will look after her. She'll make sure Rachel is okay." There is something like a smile on his mouth, and when he opens his eyes again they no longer hurt when he looks at Castiel. "I give you my permission," he says.

The other him nods and the darkness dispels, leaving behind the living room of the Mones. Jacob sees the room shift as his body rises. He feels it move and it's the strangest sensation, moving while not being conscious of his body's intent. He feels the other presence within his body along with his, he feels its thoughts and intent, but it is like he was listening to someone issue instructions in another language. The words are there and the intent is there, but he cannot make out the exact meaning. He feels like he is losing his spatial awareness along with the control – now that his limbs don't move in the way he wants them to, it seems like he can no longer tell how far from anything he stands.

He feels though; he senses the tang of blood and the air on his skin, the feel of the clothes he wears, even the way the tie moves against his collarbone. He feels the heaviness of the coat on his shoulders and the way the sleeves rub against the bone of his thumb. Yet he feels all of that as if he were being told; as if he were watching a movie, like none of it was real. It is there, plainly, because he feels, he knows, he is certain. At the same time it is like he has the memory of what it should be like and what he should be feeling, because his body remembers, each sensation sharp and tangible, each worthy of consideration and attention.

Jacob watches as his hands rise to his face and the fingers flex. He senses the body taking a step and landing, face first, on the ground. There is a moment before his face connects with the carpet, just one, when the angel panics and recedes, and Jacob throws his hands up to protect his head. He lands on his elbows and yelps – there was no crunch but something shifted and a sharp jab of a nerve being nudged shoots up his arm.

"This what you mean by me not surviving?" he asks, as he slowly collects himself and gets to his knees. His right elbow hurts, but the sensation passes in an instant.

"I'm sorry," the angel says, and the voice arrives as words in Jacob's mind. They are tinged with contrition and shame, and Jacob can barely resist a smile. Angels are nothing like he expected. "I've never done this before."

"Oh. Well, it's not hard," he offers. "Just don't think about it." before he allows Castiel control again, Jacob stands up and grabs the backseat of the couch. There is a burn in his chest and when he places his hand there he feels heat, greater that the usual

"I will learn," Castiel promises and Jacob recedes into his own head, allowing the angel to try and manage moving a human body from the inside.

Whatever Jacob thought about his issues with spatial awareness, now that he is a passenger in his own body, goes double for Castiel. He has none whatsoever. The couch that Jacob deliberately put under his hands for support is more of a hindrance than help, because he cannot seem to grasp that the backrest is level with his upper thigh, but only when he is standing upright. Castiel takes a step, or rather thrusts his leg forward, kicking the leg of the couch, tripping and hitting his hip on the armrest. Jacob wonders what does the world look like to the angel, when he considers space relative to his position, not the other way around. He learns, true enough. When he considers it objectively, he is learning faster than it should be possible. After all, it takes a human child months, if not years, to master walking upright. Castiel manages in minutes, even if these are some of the more interesting minutes of Jacob's life.

Castiel is a good student, despite the communication problems. When he finally grasps the notion of judging distance from objects and triangulating his own position based on the distance, which he does ten minutes after the initial fall, he masters walking in no time at all. Jacob resists the urge to cheer when he manages to get to the door without tripping over William's body.

Of course, as they approach the door there is the issue of the doorknob. Castiel spends a minute listening to Jacob's explanations then tries wrapping his hands around the contraption and pulling. The door remains closed.

"Twist right," Jacob thinks at the angel.

"How do I know which side is right?" Castiel asks, contemplating the door.

Jacob would have blinked. "Uh, right side. The opposite to left?"

"Ah, spatial right," Castiel says and twists the knob. The latch is released and the door opens. "Thank you. But now I must hurry," he adds and Jacob feels his eyelids drop for a second and the air shifts. When the eyes are open again he is standing in a dark room he doesn't recognize, but Mrs Mone is there, her face twisted in surprise and in fear, and Rachel is there also, asleep.

"How did you get here?" the demon in Mrs Mone screeches.

"Silence," Castiel says, and the sensation of the body speaking without his knowledge is most peculiar, Jacob thinks. He sees the effect the voice has on the demon and he cannot help but wonder how it must sound from the outside. "Give me back the child."

"Who are you?" the demon asks and it's worried, terrified even. Jacob feels a slight twist of satisfaction. Castiel doesn't reply. He raises his hand, laying his palm against the old woman's forehead and…

Jacob would have gasped, had he a body to do it with.

…Obliterates the demon. There is light shining through her eyes and her mouth, and then Mrs Mone's body just crumples to the ground, unharmed, and Jacob knows the demon, which was inside her, is dead and gone. He knows it will never hurt anyone else and he is relieved. He watches from the inside as Castiel kneels next to Rachel, woken up by the demon's screech.

"Daddy?" she asks sleepily, rubbing at her eyes. She is still tired and confused and Jacob aches, remembering Castiel's earlier words. Castiel doesn't say anything to the girl though. He presses two of his fingers above Rachel's heart. Jacob feels a strong suggestion to succumb to unconsciousness, but he resists. This is his child, one he failed in so many ways now, he wasn't going to fail her now. "It will hurt her," Castiel reminds him but Jacob doesn't care. It's his baby, and he wants to know everything that happens to her, if only so that he knows what he's guilty of, come Judgment Day.

Castiel doesn't move and for a moment Rachel just blinks at him sleepily, than she starts screaming. There is something akin to fire spreading through her veins, and Jacob doesn't feel his heart enough to know whether it's constricting, but he knows he feels the cry deep in his soul and that's hurtful enough. Rachel is in pain and she still hurts when Castiel lifts his hand. There is a deep red burn where his fingers were, one that would hurt for a while yet. Rachel whimpers and loses consciousness for which Jacob is grateful. He feels Castiel withdraw, enough for him to take control of his body and pick up his little girl. He cradles her to his chest stroking her hair. "I love you, baby. I'm so sorry." Her forehead is clammy and heated; whatever the angel just did obviously took its toll. He knows she's unconscious, but he's hoping she'll remember when she wakes up that he told her he loved her, and that he was sorry.

"I love you," he whispers one more time and then he lets himself go. It is Castiel who stands up, holding Rachel to his chest. He blinks and Jacob realizes they are in Anne's bedroom standing over her sleeping form. She's half-covered by the sheets, disheveled and emanating warmth. She looks so very much like Deborah when she's asleep Jacob feels a twinge of pain. At the same time, the way the angel sees her provides ample distraction. There is knowledge, seeping into his brain, that the soft light he sees is Anne's soul shining through her body, lighting her from the inside. The light is unwavering and orange, warm like a fireplace in a wooden cabin.

Anne shudders as if in response to an invisible draft and sits up. She looks around and notices him, a male figure standing by her bed. She panics, before she recognizes Jacob's face in the darkness. "Jacob, what are you doing here?" she whispers. She is not yet fully awake. Her hair is mussed up, there are linen lines on her cheek and a spot of drool on her bottom lip. "Is this Rachel?"

"Look after the child." Castiel lays the little body in Anne's lap. Rachel whimpers a little and turns towards the source of warmth.

"Jacob," Anne says, uncertain, but her arms are already wrapping around his daughter. The fiery glow embraces the child and Jacob knows Rachel would be safe and loved with her aunt. "You're…"

She knows something is wrong, Jacob thinks. Not that it wouldn't be obvious, when her brother-in-law appears out of nowhere in her bedroom unexpectedly and without announcing his arrival, but this different. She knows something fundamental is wrong, and Jacob cries for her. Soon she will be told her sister is dead, and that the police are searching for him as a possible suspect. He thinks of his parents, and that alone almost breaks his heart. He does nothing, however.

"Goodbye," Castiel says. He blinks and again they are somewhere else entirely; the outside of a shed, so very different from Anne's homey bedroom in her parent's house.

The shed stirs a memory in Jacob's mind, but not enough to recognize the specific location. He has little time to wonder about it. The night is still and dark, yet when Castiel takes a step towards the door the wind picks up, tearing at his clothes. A strong gust blows the doors open and the angel enters. Jacob feels the cackle of electricity, feels it against his skin. The angel reacts to the flow; something within him flexes and pushes back, and the lights explode in a flurry of sparks. Castiel watches them, unflinching despite the faint burning in his retinas. Jacob wishes he would look a little less intently.

On the other side of barn, surrounded by a variety of symbols some of which Jacob recognizes as devil traps, Christian fish, pentacles and others, there are two men, each armed with some kind of shotgun. They watch him, wary, surprised but controlled, like the hardcore cops on the movies Jacob used to watch. He wishes they were a little less hardcore when both of them fire repeatedly at Castiel and though Jacob knows it is his body that's bearing the brunt of the attack, it doesn't worry him.

Jacob looks at the younger of the two, looks not only because it's impossible not to stare at him, but also because that's where Castiel's attention is riveted. He knows this is the man Castiel has come to Earth to talk to and right now the angel's memories tell him this is the man Castiel descended into Hell for. The emotion he feels by proxy is bizarre, and strangely reminiscent of the day Jacob remembers seeing Deborah for the first time. He's been unable to tear his gaze away, because there was something about her that commanded his attention at the time. This Dean Winchester – because Jacob knows, via Castiel, that this is Dean Winchester – has that quality in spades. He is a handsome man, but it is more than that. There is a light about him, similar in nature to that which held Jacob fascinated when he looked at Anne, except his is different. More intense.

"Who are you?" Dean asks when Castiel approaches.

He is nothing like Jacob expected. This Dean is perhaps the same age as Jacob, though the look in his eyes makes him seem so much older than Jacob feels. This is a man, he knows, who has walked through the shadow of death and emerged in the light on the other side.

"I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition," Castiel tells him and Jacob just knows he will never get used to the sensation of the angel talking. He can see the images of that man's soul in Hell – which would have made him throw up, had he a body to worry about – and he can tell that his soul doesn't belong there. Sharing a body with an angel gives him a new perspective, because what his eyes see is overlaid by what the angel perceives. And what the angel sees here, beyond the flesh and the anger and the grime of the shed is a soul so bright it is shining in the darkness. This is the man whose mission it is to help save them from Hell on Earth, Castiel's thoughts tell him.

Jacob feels nothing but warmth of the angel's being, even when the man picks up a knife and buries it in his heart.

**THE END**.


End file.
